OXfOUD    BOOK    r.:HOF* 


THE  ROYAL  ROAD 


THE 
ROYAL  ROAD 


BEING    THE    STORY    OF  THE   LIFE,   DEATH,   AND 
RESURRECTION  OF  EDWARD  HANKEY  OF  LONDON 

BY 

ALFRED  OLLIVANT 

AUTHOR  OF  "  BOB,  SON  OF  BATTLE,"  "  REDCOAT  CAPTAIN," 

"THE  GENTLEMAN,"  "  THE  TAMING  OF 

JOHN  BLUNT."  ETC. 


Dost  thou  think  to  escape  that  which  no  mortal  ever  could  avoid  ? 
For  even  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  Himself  was  not  for  one  hour 
of  His  life  without  the  anguish  of  His  passion. 

And  how  dost  thou  seek  another  Road,  than  this  Royal  Road, 
which  is  the  Road  of  the  Holy  Cross  ? 

—  Thomas  a  Kempis 


Garden  City       New  York 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1912 


Copyright,  1912,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE   &   Co. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian. 


To 
BEATRICE  WEBB 


393816 


Thou  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 
Thy  souVs  immensity, 

—  Wordsworth 


CONTENTS 

Book  I 
HIS  LIFE 

IAPTER  PAGE 

I.    His  Birth 3 

II.    His  Childhood 11 

III.  His  Boyhood 22 

IV.  His  Youth 34 

V.     His  Manhood 45 

VI.     His  Marriage 54 

VII.     His  Honeymoon 62 

VIII.     His  Home 78 

IX.     His  Child 90 

X.     His  Fatherhood 104 


Book  II 
HIS  DEATH 

Part  I 

Pinched 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XI.     The  Happy  Family 117 

XII.     The  Shadow 125 

XIII.  A  Glimpse  of  the  Abyss 135 

XIV.  Tap-tap 144 

XV.     The  Weak  Spot 153 

XVI.     Mr.  Edward 159 

XVH.    The  Lull 166 

XVHI.     The  Two  Men 171 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.    Outside 177 

XX.     In  There 185 

XXI.    Miss  English  to  the  Rescue 195 

Part  II 
Squeezed 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.     The  Plank 203 

XXIII.  The  Rot 215 

XXIV.  Spun  Off 222 

XXV.     Tap-tap 228 

XXVI.     The  Brink  of  the  Abyss 240 

XXVII.     The  Crucified 245 

XXVIII.     The  Relieving  Officer 255 

XXIX.     The  Board  of  Guardians  ....*.  269 

XXX.     Before  the  Board 275 

XXXI.     The  Blow 282 

Part  III 
Crushed 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXII.     Teddy  Returns  Home 293 

XXXIII.  The  Man  with  the  Razor 300 

XXXIV.  The  Old  Friend 307 

XXXV.     Dr.  English  Lies 320 

Book  III 
HIS  RESURRECTION 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXVI.    The  Resurrection  Morning    ....  331 

XXXVII.     The  Priest  of  To-day 341 

XXXVIII.     The  Last  of  the  Relieving  Officer   .     .  348 

XXXIX.     The  Policeman 353 

XL.     Falling  Dusk    . 358 

XLI.     Teddy  Triumphant 364 


Book  I 
HIS  LIFE 


THE    ROYAL    ROAD 

i 

HIS  BIRTH 

Teddy  Hankey  was  the  new  sort  of  workingman  — 
common  to  Europe  and  America:  a  product  of  the  towns 
and  twentieth  century. 

He  was  not  burly;  he  was  not  beery;  and  he  was  not 
slow  of  mind  or  body. 

There  was  nothing  about  him  of  the  navvy. 

His  strength  lay  in  his  hands  and  not  in  his  arms  and 
back  and  legs. 

In  his  life  he  had  never  swung  a  pick  or  sledge;  never 
driven  a  spade  home;  never  clung  to  the  jolting  plough  as 
it  sheered  its  shining  way  through  seas  of  rich  red  tilth. 
His  working-clothes  were  not  earth-soiled  and  russet- 
hued  —  he  was  too  far  from  the  old  brown  mother  to 
know  kiss  of  hers;  nor  was  he  ever  gartered  beneath  the 
knee.  Corduroys  were  unknown  to  him:  his  working- 
duds  had  once  been  his  Sunday  suit. 

This  workingman  was  not  the  machine  that  wrings  its 

3 


4  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

riches  from  the  earth  as  his  forbears  had  been;  he  was  the 
man  behind  the  machine. 

In  Europe  and  America  there  were  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  him. 

His  grandfather  had  lived  and  died  in  Sussex,  labouring 
his  life  through  over  clay  fallows  behind  a  groaning  ox- 
team,  their  necks  bowed  beneath  the  yoke  as  they 
slouched  sullenly  along,  breathing  clouds  about  their  feet. 
He  had  talked  the  high  slow  up-and-down  nasal  dialect  of 
his  county,  could  mow  his  two  acres  a  day  with  those  long- 
sweeping  brown  arms  of  his,  and  on  Sundays  donned  a 
black  coat  and  laboured  heavily  to  church,  touching  his 
hat  to  the  squire  and  the  young  ladies,  toward  whom  he 
felt  much  the  same  dull  respectful  kindliness  his  ox-team 
felt  for  him. 

Abraham  Boniface  had  been  his  name;  and  his  name 
suited  his  nature.  He  was  never  outside  Sussex  all  his 
days  and  lived  and  died  within  half  a  mile  of  the  black 
timbered  cottage  under  an  old  yew  which  had  heard  his 
first  cry. 

His  son  Job  had  the  restlessness  in  his  blood  of  the  new 
generation.  As  a  young  man  he  heard  the  call  of  the 
towns  and  answered  it.  At  twenty,  when  the  dairymaid 
at  the  Hall  jilted  him  for  one  of  the  undergardeners,  he 
kissed  his  mother,  turned  his  back  on  the  blue  wall  of  the 
South  Downs  his  fathers  had  seen  for  generations  across 


HIS  BIRTH  5 

the  smoking  plough,  and  set  his  face  for  the  North,  all  his 
possessions  in  a  chequered  handkerchief. 

From  the  top  of  Leith  Hill  he  looked  his  last  upon  the 
wooded  Weald  in  which  his  ancestors  had  lived  and  died 
for  centuries,  on  to  the  Downs  upholding  heaven  beyond, 
and  the  flash  of  the  sea  thrusting  into  Shoreham  Gap. 

Then  he  tramped  down  the  hill  and  a  great  billow  of 
earth  surged  up  for  ever  between  him  and  the  home  of  his 
forbears;  and  he  was  sucked  down  by  the  huge  Octopus- 
town  that  spread  its  feelers  for  miles  along  the  shining 
barge-laden  river  —  the  town  that  had  absorbed  in  the 
past  century  millions  such  as  himself,  simple  souls,  the 
clay  still  clinging  to  their  boots. 

Thus  Job  Boniface  dropped  out  of  the  sunshine,  the 
mists,  and  large  spaciousness  of  the  country  into  the 
shadow  and  swirl  and  mutter  of  the  city.  At  first  he  pined 
for  the  great  spaces;  and  often  as  he  walked  the  streets 
lifted  his  face  to  find  a  wall  rising  across  his  fine  of  vision 
instead  of  the  familiar  barrier  of  blue  hills  he  had  half 
expected.  And  always  the  wall  brought  with  it  the  same 
sense  of  disappointment,  and  his  soaring  mind  fell  like  a 
shot  bird.  Indeed  he  was  walled  in.  Walls  came  between 
him  and  heaven.  He  could  not  feel  the  wind  upon  his 
brow  for  walls;  he  could  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  refreshing 
green  for  walls;  the  sun  could  not  get  at  him  for  walls. 

London  was  for  him  the  place  of  walls. 

The  hard  pavements  burned  his  feet;  and  he  longed  for 


6  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

the  soft  cool  squelch  of  the  clay.  Yet  he  stayed  on, 
mastered  against  his  will  by  he  knew  not  what  of  siren 
charm  in  his  new  mistress  as  thousands  of  his  fellow- 
mariners  had  been  before  him.  And  he  found  a  job  along 
of  horses  in  a  brewery,  which  somewhat  comforted  his 
soul  in  exile. 

In  London  Job  met  and  ultimately  married  a  woman 
who  was  queer. 

Elizabeth  Hankey  was  not  his  own  class  or  kind;  and 
quite  how  she  came  to  tumble  up  against  Job  Boniface  in 
the  melting-pot  of  the  great  town  it  would  be  hard  to  say; 
and  harder  still  perhaps  to  hazard  how  she  came  to  many 
him. 

It  may  be  that  she  had  to  earn  a  living  and  knew  herself 
quite  incompetent  to  do  so;  it  may  be  that  his  bulk  and 
brawn  inspired  confidence  in  her  ansemic  bosom;  it  may 
be  that  his  large  uncouth  country  air  of  a  strayed  cow  lost 
in  a  humming  thoroughfare  and  dreaming  of  lush  mead- 
ows, his  broad  speech,  his  broad  smile,  his  broad  harvest 
eyes  appealed  to  her  town-bred  senses. 

Certainly  the  pair  had  little  in  common  but  poverty; 
yet  theirs  was  by  no  means  an  unhappy  marriage.  The 
big  Southron  with  the  smell  of  the  country  still  upon  him 
gave  to  the  street-bred  woman  a  certain  massiveness, 
security,  and  strength  she  sadly  needed,  while  absorbing 
into  his  own  rude  blood  and  being  something  of  his  wife's 


HIS  BIRTH  7 

refinement.  For  there  was  more  than  a  little  of  the 
lady  about  Elizabeth  Hankey — by  instinct  and  tradition. 
And  Job  was  quite  man  enough  to  recognize  his  own 
coarser  clay  and  respect  and  be  proud  of  the  finer  nature 
of  his  wife. 

A  thin-blooded,  thin-boned  woman,  tall  and  somewhat 
tumble-down,  with  wan  spiritual  face,  hollow  eyes,  and 
fair  sparse  hair,  her  shoulders  were  round,  her  chest  flat; 
and  there  was  a  permanently  scared  look  in  her  eyes,  as 
though  she  feared  the  rough  world,  which  her  gentle  nature 
had  found  too  much  for  it. 

She  was  above  all  things  street-bred  —  with  always  a 
touch  of  the  lady  in  her  manner  and  her  bearing.  It  was 
even  said  that  her  mother  was  a  governess  who  had  fallen. 
That  was  gossip  only:  it  did  not  come  from  Mrs.  Boniface; 
and  when  a  flashy  neighbour,  who  believed  herself  to  be 
likewise  of  superior  if  left-handed  lineage,  touched  upon 
the  point,  she  only  blushed  faintly.  Her  mother's  secret 
and  her  mother's  shame,  if  shame  there  had  been,  were  as 
safe  in  the  keeping  of  the  gentle,  tenacious  woman  as  in  the 
grave. 

There  was  indeed  a  delicacy  and  a  fragrance  about  her 
as  of  a  garden  flower  flagging  in  exile  amid  sturdy  vege- 
tables. The  comfortable  solidity  of  the  middle-classes 
was  not  hers.  She  was  above  them  and  beneath  them; 
nearer  perhaps  to  the  remote  aristocracy,  and  by  reason  of 
her  natural  simplicity  not  so  far  happily  from  the  class 


8  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

among  whom  her  lot  was  thrown,  yet  separated  from  that 
class  by  the  faint  mysterious  bloom  of  her  ladyhood. 

She  was  out  of  place  in  her  home  alongside  her  broad- 
speeched,  big-limbed  mate  —  yet  she  was  fond  of  him;  and 
out  of  place  in  her  surroundings  —  yet  she  had  no  enemies. 

"She's  come  down  in  the  world,"  her  neighbours  said, 
and  left  her  alone  except  when  she  needed  them  —  which 
was  fairly  often. 

They  recognized  she  was  not  quite  one  of  themselves; 
but  she  gave  herself  no  airs  and  was  always  willing  to  help, 
and,  what  was  spiritually  of  far  greater  worth,  to  be 
helped.  And  of  the  two,  to  be  honest,  she  received  far 
more  than  she  gave.  But  there  was  something  so  appeal- 
ing about  her  gentle  weakness  as  never  to  fail  to  tap  the 
springs  of  generosity  in  her  neighbours'  hearts. 

Mrs.  Boniface  could  love. 

And  there  was,  moreover,  about  her  a  romantic  sense  of 
tragedy  which  touched  to  poetry  the  souls  of  the  simple 
poor  among  whom  she  lived. 

They  summed  it  up  in  their  own  unconsciously  dramatic 
way: 

"  I  dare  say  her  mother  kept  a  servant  —  if  one  only 
knew. " 

Mrs.  Boniface  never  went  to  the  wash-tub,  in  her 
husband's  old-fashioned  country  phrase;  which  signified 
that  he  was  earning  just  enough  to  keep  his  wife  from 
going  out  to  work.     And  it  was  as  well,  for  Mrs.  Boniface 


HIS   BERTH  9 

was  quite  unfitted  to  the  wash-tub  or  indeed  to  any  form 
of  wrestling  with  the  world. 

In  more  ways  than  one  she  was  something  of  a  lady. 
She  had  nerves.  Mrs.  Boniface  distinctly  had  nerves, 
queer  fancies  —  especially  before  Teddy  came  into  the 
world. 

That  little  boy  was  born  in  the  hum  of  five  million  men 
and  women,  who  did  not  greatly  care. 

The  miracle  took  place  in  a  dingy  room  looking  out  on 
yards  hung  with  washing,  on  a  mangy  tortoise-shell  cat 
crouching  upon  a  wall,  and  on  the  backs  of  other  small 
drab  houses. 

He  had  not  been  in  the  world  five  minutes  before  it 
began  to  bring  pressure  to  bear  on  his  defenceless  little 
self,  as  though  determined  to  drive  out  the  recruit  who  had 
only  just  fought  his  way  into  the  ranks. 

The  eyes  of  the  doctor,  washing  his  hands  in  the 
corner,  wandered  about  the  room,  which  was  bare,  even 
of  texts. 

Drying  his  hands,  he  came  and  stood  over  his  patient. 

"You  must  tell  your  husband  when  he  comes  in  to  have 
my  fee  of  one  guinea  and  a  half  for  me  when  next  I  call," 
he  said  firmly.  "One  guinea  and  one  half  —  d'you  see? 
He  should  have  left  it  for  me  to-day. " 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  new  mother,  weakly  wiping 
away  the  tears  that  still  bedewed  her  cheek. 

He  went  out;  and  the  stout  woman  in  the  apron  dand- 


10  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

ling  the  new  boy  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  looked  after  him 
with  eyes  of  assumed  indignation.  Her  own  fee  was 
safe  in  her  pocket  —  paid  down  before  she  would  cross  the 
threshold. 

"I  don't  like  that,"  she  said.     "He's  a  hard  'un,  is 
Doctor  Thorns." 


n 

HIS  CHILDHOOD 

In  that  hard  dun  grabbing  world,  amid  the  roar  and 
tumult  of  millions  grinding  against  each  other  in  the  tides 
of  Time,  the  soul  of  Teddy  Hankey  blossomed. 

The  colour,  music,  and  mysterious  huge  life  of  the  ele- 
ments went  not  to  the  making  of  his  soul.  The  majestic 
rhythm  of  trees  marching  in  ranks  to  battle;  a  storm- 
thrush  shouting  on  a  windy  spray  against  the  blue;  the 
large  comfort  of  earth,  red  and  green  and  goodly;  the 
ripple  of  larks  in  heaven  spraying  the  dusty  souls  of  men 
with  song;  the  sound  and  splendour  of  the  deliberate  sea  — 
of  these  his  waking  eyes  and  ears  knew  nothing. 

The  boy  was  born  into  a  world  made  by  men  for  men. 
Therefore  it  was  a  world  of  men  and  walls  and  lamps. 
The  men  and  walls  were  for  the  day;  the* lamps  for  the 
night  —  and  between  the  two  there  was  a  gray  bit,  mys- 
teriously looming,  which  was  very  dear  to  the  little  lad's 
soul. 

It  was  not  till  he  was  knickerbockered  that  he  noticed 
one  evening  a  bright  and  tiny  eye  peeping  at  him  from 
behind   a   tall   chimney.     The    remote   twinkling   thing 

11 


12  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

frightened  him.  He  plucked  at  his  mother's  hand  and 
stopped  and  stared. 

"Look,  mum!"  he  whispered.     "Weeny  lamp." 

"Yes,  lovey,"  said  the  tired  woman      "It's  a  star." 

The  little  boy  gazed. 

"  It's  a  long  a-way  off, "  he  said  wisely.     "  Who  lit  it?  " 

"Eh,  I  don't  know,  dearie,"  his  mother  answered 
wearily. 

The  little  boy  looked  for  the  star  again  next  night  and, 
when  he  found  it  playing  peep-po  behind  the  chimney,  he 
welcomed  it  with  smiles  as  a  new  friend. 

But  it  was  seldom  that  the  child's  eyes  lifted  to  heaven. 
There  was  too  much  on  earth  to  interest  them,  fascinated, 
as  they  were,  by  the  swirl  of  the  great  city,  eddying, 
seething,  sucking  all  about  them. 

His  tiny  seeking  soul  found  something  of  the  Spirit  in 
the  immense  movement  and  mystery  of  Life  on  every  side. 

And  walled  in  as  he  was,  the  infinite  tide  of  beauty,  that 
steals  through  or  over  every  obstacle,  crept  in  upon  him 
here  and  there  in  gleams. 

In  the  spring  a  dismal  tree,  drooping  in  exile,  would 
fling  forth  a  sudden  cloud  of  green,  and  cause  the  child's 
heart  to  sing  within  him.  The  moon  sailing  by  night 
amid  white  escorting  galleons  across  a  black  abyss  amazed 
the  boy  and  made  him  clutch  at  it  open-mouthed.  Over- 
head too  there  was  always  a  narrow  strip  of  sky  —  bright 
or  dull  and  always  changing;  and  at  his  feet  there  was 


HIS  CHILDHOOD  13 

such  another  strip  of  sky  in  which  were  funny  houses 
mostly  black  that  moved  and  made  a  noise  and  smoked 
at  the  chimney. 

That  second  strip  of  sky,  flowing  along  the  land,  the 
little  boy  loved  most  of  all.  His  best  hours  as  a  child  were 
passed  in  his  father's  arms  on  one  of  London's  bridges. 
The  old  Thames  was  the  tiny  cockney's  mate  and  comrade 
from  the  first;  and  many  a  joke  the  two  had  together, 
while  he  was  still  inarticulate.  As  a  baby,  whenever  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  elusive  friend,  he  danced  and  bub- 
bled in  his  father's  arms  and  grasped  at  it  with  chubby  fist. 

The  river  ran  before  the  child's  eyes  like  a  great  snake 
toward  the  sea,  and  ran,  and  ran;  and  as  it  ran  it  changed 
its  skin.  Sometimes  it  was  silvery,  sometimes  brown,  and 
sometimes  blue;  and  always  slipping  away  under  dark 
bridges  between  the  houses  that  came  crowding  down  to 
the  waterside  calling  it  to  stop.  But  it  would  not  stop. 
It  ran  on  and  on  for  ever  in  shining  purity,  washing  its 
mud  banks  and  making  them  sweet,  away  and  away  from 
the  murk,  and  smoke,  and  prison  walls,  away  and  away, 
escaping  from  its  narrow  boundaries  into  the  infinite 
ocean  that  waited  it  widespread  beneath  the  sky  beyond. 

And  something  in  the  spirit  of  the  flying  river  appealed 
to  the  soul  of  the  wall-bound  baby.  As  he  looked  down 
on  its  swirling  brown  waters,  his  father's  arms  about  him, 
his  father's  weathered  cheek  against  his  round  rose-white 
one,  the  seagulls  swooping  about  him  on  angel  wings,  he 


14  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

would  wake  to  a  new  life,  seeming  to  cry  to  the  fugitive 
stream  beneath  —  Faster  I  faster  I 

A  cockney  to  the  roots  of  him,  down  in  the  depths  of 
little  Teddy  lurked  the  soul  of  a  poet,  nourished  on  his 
mother's  milk. 

From  the  first  indeed  he  was  very  much  his  mother's 
boy  —  slight-boned,  delicate,  and  with  her  somewhat 
scared  blue  eyes. 

And  like  his  mother,  Teddy  could  love. 

Often  his  little  hand  came  creeping  into  hers;  and  when 
their  eyes  met  a  smile,  sudden  and  very  sweet,  would  well 
up  out  of  their  deeps  of  speedwell  blue.  He  was  always  on 
her  lap,  or  sitting  on  a  tiny  stool  at  her  feet,  his  head 
against  her  knees. 

Mother  and  child  lived  in  each  other's  hearts.  They 
sought  the  Infinite  together  thus,  and  not  upon  their  knees. 
There  was  perhaps  more  true  love  in  that  house  than  in 
any  other  house  in  Fish  Street;  and  it  was  the  only  one 
in  which  there  were  no  texts.  That  was  remarkable  and 
remarked. 

The  schoolmaster  had  it  that  the  mother  of  Mrs.  Boni- 
face had  been  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  who  had  shut 
his  door  against  his  child  in  the  hour  of  her  necessity. 

Certainly  Mrs.  Boniface  never  went  to  church,  and  the 
name  of  God  was  seldom  heard  on  her  lips. 

Her  religion  was  to  love. 


HIS  CHILDHOOD  15 

She  said  no  prayers  and  taught  her  child  none.  She 
was  of  those  who  pray  only  in  the  spirit,  and  know  not 
even  that. 

Once  indeed  a  youthful  and  somewhat  aggressive  curate 
called  and  subjected  her  to  a  cross-examination  on  the  state 
of  her  soul. 

"I  trust  at  all  events  you  believe  in  God,  Mrs.  Boni- 
face," he  ended. 

The  gentle  creature  trembled.  "I'm  sure  I  don't 
know,  sir,"  she  answered  with  downcast  eyes.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  it  all.     It's  too  much  for  me. " 

The  curate  turned.  Himself  he  was  cocksure  with  the 
cocksureness  of  twenty-five. 

"Bright  lookout  for  your  boy,"  he  muttered,  and 
marched  down  the  street. 

The  poor  woman  snatched  up  the  little  lad  and  nursed 
him. 

"I  can  only  love  him,"  she  cried.  "God  can  hardly 
blame  me  for  that. " 

A  desolate  figure  she  made,  woebegone  and  weeping,  as 
she  rocked  to  and  fro,  the  child's  bright  head  against 
her  breast,  and  his  blue  eyes  streaming  sympathetic 
tears. 

On  the  whole,  in  spite  of  curates,  Mrs.  Boniface  was 
as  happy  in  these  years  after  the  birth  of  her  little  boy 
as  so  weak  a  woman  could  be  in  a  world  which  is  for  the 
strong. 


16  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Mother  and  child,  tossing  together  in  that  great  welter 
of  a  town,  filled  each  other's  hearts  to  brimming  with  joy 
and  pain. 

It  was  not  to  last  for  long. 

One  day  when  Teddy  was  still  a  little  chap  his  father 
did  not  return  home  at  noon  from  the  brewery  hard  by 
where  he  worked.  The  manager  came  instead  at  a  trot, 
his  collar  limp. 

When  his  mother  heard  what  the  manager  had  to  say 
she  seized  the  child  up  in  her  arms  and  rushed  down  the 
street  screaming: 

"Job!  Job!  take  me  too  —  me  and  Teddy." 

But  Job  could  not  do  that.  He  lay  very  quiet  in  a  shed 
with  a  tarpaulin  over  his  face;  while  a  little  crowd  of  men 
hung  over  a  stable  door  close  by  muttering  that  they  had 
always  known  how  it  would  be. 

Within,  a  great  shaggy  horse,  conscious  of  crime,  and 
quick  with  fear  of  punishment,  sweated  and  shivered  and 
rolled  its  eyes,  snorting  through  wide-blown  nostrils. 

After  that,  Teddy's  daddy  never  came  home,  though  his 
hat  and  coat  still  hung  in  the  passage. 

When  the  boy  asked  his  mother  where  his  daddy  had 
gone,  she  answered  simply, 

"I  don't  know,  dear,"  and  he  noticed  that  she  wore 
black,  and  was  strangely  quiet. 

For  hours  together  she  sat  with  her  wan  face  and  hollow 


HIS  CHILDHOOD  17 

eyes  staring  before  her,  Teddy  nursed  upon  her  knee. 
She  never  wept  and  rarely  spoke.  Her  mouth  was  usually 
a  little  open,  and  there  was  no  light  in  her  face,  and  little 
answer  when  he  smiled.  She  was  dull  and  dead  and  knew 
it.  When  he  plucked  at  her  and  whimpered  for  acknowl- 
edgment, 

"I  can't  help  it,  lovey,"  she  said  quietly. 

Mother  Maherty,  a  kind  Irish  neighbour,  came  in 
and  did  the  house,  and  took  him  off  to  play  with  her 
children. 

A  clergyman  visited  his  mother  and  told  her  not  un- 
kindly she  must  stir  herself. 

She  answered  simply? 

"I  can't,  sir." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  you  if  you  won't  help  yourself," 
he  answered  with  quiet  decision,  and  went  out. 

Then  a  tall  man  with  a  bag  came  —  and  went. 

After  that  nobody  else  came  but  the  man  for  the  rent; 
and  there  was  nothing  to  eat. 

Mrs.  Boniface  sat  and  nursed  her  boy  all  day.  He 
cried  for  food.  She  undid  her  bodice,  and  offered  him  her 
lean  breast. 

Mrs.  Maherty,  her  kind  Irish  neighbour,  came  in  and 
saw  her. 

"And  where's  the  sense  in  that,  sweet  love?"  she  asked. 
"You're  dry  as  the  nether  millstone,  sure." 

"It's  all  I've  got  to  offer  him,"  the  mother  whimpered. 


18  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

For  days  and  nights  the  little  boy  seemed  to  sit  so,  while 
his  mother  muttered  about  Jesus. 

"Who's  Jesus,  mum?"  asked  the  little  fellow,  weep- 
ing in  sympathy.  "And  will  he  give  me  something  to 
eat?" 

The  mother  did  not  answer. 

Something  he  had  heard  in  the  street  about  this  man 
stole  back  upon  the  mind  of  the  little  boy. 

"Does  he  love  me,  mum?"  he  asked. 

"I  hope  so,  dearie,"  his  mother  answered.  "No  one 
else  does  —  only  me.     That's  a  sure  thing. " 

That  afternoon  the  man  with  the  bag  came  again  and 
talked  at  length  and  kindly. 

The  little  boy  upon  his  mother's  knee  hearkened  to  a 
perpetually  recurring  word. 

"What's  the  Workhouse,  mum?"  he  asked. 

"It's  where  they  want  to  put  you  and  me,  dear  love," 
the  mother  cried.     "Take  you  from  me.     Partus." 

"You  may  see  him  once  a  week,"  said  the  man, 
soothingly. 

"Once  a  week!"  screamed  the  mother,  suddenly  shrill. 
"And  he's  my  flesh.  I'd  sooner  tramp  the  streets  with 
him  in  my  arms. " 

The  tall  man  turned  away. 

"'Ave  it  your  own  way  of  course,  Mrs.  Boniface," 
he  said  gently.  "Only  it  seems  rather  'ard  on  the 
little'un." 


HIS  CHILDHOOD  19 

Then  some  one  found  Mrs.  Boniface  a  job  as  a  char- 
woman. 

On  a  bitter  morning  of  March  she  went  down  on  her 
hands  and  knees  and  cleaned  the  steps  of  a  small  trades- 
man's house. 

A  fat  vulgar  woman  in  frizzled  white  hair,  the  trades- 
man's wife,  stood  at  the  window  of  her  warm  room  and 
watched.  Sometimes  she  tapped  at  the  pane.  A  coarse 
though  kindly  creature,  she  liked  her  work  well  done. 

Suddenly  the  wisp  of  delicate  woman,  clad  in  east  wind 
it  seemed  and  little  else,  fell  over  on  her  side. 

The  fat  woman  ran  out  crying,  "Gracious!" 

With  the  help  of  her  maid  she  supported  her  charwoman 
indoors  and  gave  her  whiskey.  Later  she  called  a  cab  and 
took  her  home,  giving  her  two  shillings  at  the  door; though, 
as  she  said  with  smiles  to  her  minister,  when  next  he  called : 

"It  was  charity.  She  hadn't  done  sixpennor'th  of 
work. " 

Then  the  man  with  the  bag  came  again. 

Teddy's  mother  seemed  amenable  to  persuasion  this 
time. 

She  said,  "Yes,  sir,"  and  even  smiled. 

The  man  gave  her  a  paper,  and  a  word  of  encourage- 
ment. 

"It's  all  right  once  you're  in,"  he  said.  "It's  just  the 
first  plunge.     I  quite  understand. " 


20  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

She  said,  "Thank  you,  sir,"  and  watched  his  back 
down  the  street. 

When  he  was  round  the  corner,  she  huddled  the  boy 
in  an  old  shawl,  and  hunted  shadow-like  toward  the 
river. 

"It's  together,  lovey,  at  any  rate,"  she  cried.  "They 
can't  take  you  from  me  there. " 

It  was  the  boy,  wide-eyed  upon  her  shoulder,  and  suck- 
ing at  his  thumb,  who  saved  her. 

"'Bye,"  he  bleated  to  Mother  Maherty  across  the 
street.     "We're  off,  mum  and  me." 

The  fat  woman  floundered  panting  in  pursuit. 

"Where  is  it  you're  off  to,  Mrs.  Boniface?"  she 
asked. 

"  To  the  river, "  the  other  whispered.  "  Teddy  and  me. 
They  can't  separate  us  there. " 

The  great  kind  Irishwoman  put  her  strong  mothering 
arm  about  the  frail  waist  of  the  other  and  stayed  her. 

"The  river!"  she  said.  "What's  the  matter  with  the 
ould  river  then?" 

The  wretched  woman  with  the  wrung  face  began  to 
weep  and  tremble. 

"It's  calling  me,"  she  cried.  "The  river's  calling  me. 
It's  our  friend. " 

"Come  home  with  me,  Acushla,"  said  her  big,  brave 
neighbour.  "It's  not  the  river's  calling  you  at  all.  It's 
the  ould  Devil  himself. " 


HIS   CHILDHOOD  21 

Next  day  men  came  for  his  mother.  She  went  quietly. 
As  they  put  her  into  the  cab  he  saw  her  scared  eyes,  lit 
with  a  wild  gleam  of  love  and  hope  and  passion. 

"Bring  him  along  to  the  river  to-night,  Mrs.  Maherty, " 
she  whispered.  "The  river's  our  friend.  It's  all  one 
there." 


HI 
HIS  BOYHOOD 

After  that  Teddy  passed  a  hundred  tragic  and  tremen- 
dous hours,  which  haunted  him  through  life. 

At  the  end  of  the  hundred  hours  he  went  to  live  with 
Aunt  Eleanor  of  Lambeth. 

Aunt  Eleanor  of  Lambeth,  who  always  looked  shocked, 
was  a  cold  white  woman,  much  like  her  sister  but  without 
her  anxious  eyes  or  wan  spirituality. 

Tall  and  austere,  she  always  dressed  in  black  with  a  little 
frill  of  white  about  her  throat;  and  she  was  above  all 
things  genteel.  At  social  gatherings  of  the  church  of 
which  she  was  an  honoured  and  ornamental  prop  she  wore 
black  satin  and  was  often  taken  for  the  widow  of  a  clergy- 
man. 

It  was  the  grief  of  her  life  that  she  could  not  afford  a 
servant.  Her  hands  were  beautifully  kept,  and  she  was 
justly  proud  of  them.  When  she  washed  the  plates,  and 
peeled  the  potatoes,  her  door  was  always  locked.  Nobody 
in  Lambeth  had  ever  seen  Miss  Hankey  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up. 


HIS  BOYHOOD  23 

Unlike  her  sister  she  was  fond  of  telling  the  few  with 
whom  she  cared  to  consort  that  her  mother  was  a  gover- 
ness, who  had  come  down  in  the  world  —  a  very  'ighly 
educated  woman,  who  knew  German  and  French,  and 
learned  Art  at  the  Slade  School,  and  played  her  own  violin. 

By  nature  she  was  a  Puritan;  but  the  passion  of  her  life 
was  to  be  a  lady.  And  when  the  two  strains  in  her 
clashed  the  latter  conquered.  Thus  it  came  that  as  a 
young  woman  she  had  been  for  some  time  the  mistress  of  a 
gentleman.  She  had  not  cared  for  him,  and  was  too  cold- 
blooded to  be  in  the  least  a  libertine.  The  position  had 
seemed  to  her  more  genteel  than  that  of  assistant  in  a 
shop;  and  she  had  overcome  her  very  considerable  scruples 
by  assuring  her  Maker  that  thus  and  thus  only  could  she 
save  the  sinner's  soul  for  Him.  Indeed  she  came  to  look 
upon  herself  in  this  regard  as  a  kind  of  saint  —  martyred 
by  the  world  for  making  a  sacrifice  it  could  not  understand. 

Moreover  it  was  always  her  intention  to  marry  the 
sinner  when  she  had  converted  him. 

Unhappily  she  was  disappointed  alike  of  husband  and 
convert. 

To  her  bitter  chagrin  he  dismissed  her  after  a  time, 
affirming  as  his  reason  that  she  always  looked  so  damned 
shocked.  To  assuage  her  grief  he  gave  her  £100  down 
and  £1  a  week  in  perpetuity. 

It  was  the  great  affront  of  her  fife.  She  never  forgave 
the  offender,  but  she  took  the  cash. 


24  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Thereafter  she  became  passionately  High  Church  and 
confessed  her  fault  without  tears  to  a  clergyman,  ex- 
pounding at  length  the  real  motive  for  conduct  that  in  the 
eyes  of  a  world  which  could  not  understand  might  seem 
a  sin. 

Then  she  settled  down  in  Lambeth  for  spiritual  reasons. 

When  Teddy's  mother  went  to  an  asylum,  Aunt  Elea- 
nor took  her  only  sister's  child  to  live  with  her,  not  from 
love  but  as  a  religious  duty. 

And  her  action  in  so  doing  was  all  the  more  Christian 
because,  as  she  was  careful  to  tell  the  curate,  who  was 
almost  the  only  person  in  Lambeth  with  whom  she  cared 
to  consort,  she  had  never  approved  of  Elizabeth's  marriage 
—  never. 

Mr.  Boniface  was  quite  a  common  man  —  quite;  and 
his  talk  was  that  broad.  Really  she  couldn't  hardly  make 
him  out.  And  he  used  such  strange  words  with  it  too. 
When  she  had  asked  him  if  he  was  a  countryman  he  had 
answered,  if  you  please  —  7  be.  She  had  heard  tell  his 
father  was  a  ploughman  —  only  Mr.  Hobart  must  never 
repeat  that,  please,  never.  It  would  be  so  lowering  for  the 
little  boy  in  after  life.  What  her  sister  had  been  thinking 
about  to  go  and  do  a  thing  like  that  she  couldn't  conceive. 
Of  course  poor  Elizabeth  had  always  been  very  queer. 
But  it  was  a  great  come  down.  The  Hankeys  were  poor; 
but  they  were  genteel,  and  'eld  their  'eads  with  the  'ighest 


HIS  BOYHOOD  25 

in  the  land.  Thank  God,  her  dear  mother  had  not  lived 
to  see  her  daughter's  fall. 

And  the  name  itself  was  so  —  so  rustic.  Boniface!  — 
It  made  her  think  of  a  smelly  farmyard  and  men  carrying 
sacks. 

So  the  first  thing  his  aunt  did  on  taking  the  little  boy 
into  her  house  was  to  change  his  name. 

Teddy  Boniface  became  Edward  Hankey. 

It  took  the  religious  lady  some  time  to  implant  the  new 
truth  upon  the  stubborn  childish  brain. 

"I'm  'ittle  Teddy  Bonifa  —  ace, "  blubbered  the  ginger- 
haired  urchin,  one  tiny  fist  to  his  eyes.  The  inherited 
drawl  on  the  last  syllable  enraged  his  aunt. 

"Your  name  is  Edward  Hankey,"  said  the  precise 
woman  through  white  teeth.  "Edward  Hankey.  Say 
it  after  me  now.     Ed  —  ward  Hank  —  ey. " 

"Ed  — ward  'Ankey,"  sobbed  the  child.  "'Tain't 
though." 

"Hank!"  said  his  aunt  severely.  "Hank,  not  'Ank. 
You  mustn't  drop  your  h's  —  not  in  my  'ouse. " 

So  the  little  fellow  doffed  his  father's  name  with  its 
aroma  of  Sussex  and  the  plough,  and  became  Edward 
Hankey  of  London;  which  was  somehow  much  more  fitting. 

To  Teddy  his  new  home  was  no  home. 
For   days  he  sat  wistfully  upon  his  little  stool  and 
watched  the  door. 


26  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

There  was  something  so  pitiful  about  the  thin-legged 
morsel  of  humanity,  sitting  red-headed  with  his  pale-blue 
eyes  for  ever  on  the  crack,  that  his  aunt  took  him  on  her 
lap. 

He  found  it  cold,  unlike  his  mother's,  and  soon  sidled 
off,  to  play  with  a  rag  doll  in  a  dark  corner,  and  sniffle 
to  himself  when  he  listened  for  footsteps  that  never  came. 

His  little  heart  sought  Love;  and  in  that  house  there 
was  nothing  to  be  found  but  texts,  church  calendars,  and 
holy  books. 

And  for  lack  of  what  was  essential  to  his  life,  the  child 
would  almost  certainly  have  followed  his  mother  soon, 
but  that  just  then  the  great,  kind,  lumbering  State  stepped 
in  to  save  him. 

An  inspector  called,  and  he  was  sent  off  to  school. 

In  a  great  bare  building  that  stood  up  naked  and  deso- 
late out  of  an  asphalt  yard  the  little  lad  found  what  he 
sought. 

The  mistress  of  the  infants'  school  was  a  middle-aged 
woman  with  tired  eyes.  A  schoolmistress  by  profession, 
she  was  the  noblest  kind  of  missionary  by  nature:  for  she 
did  her  Master's  work  just  as  she  breathed  —  uncon- 
sciously. Little  derelict  Teddy  straightway  wound  his 
way  into  the  haven  of  a  heart  in  which  thousands  of  such 
tiny  shipwrecked  souls,  the  jetsam  and  flotsam  of  the 
town,  had  found  safe  harbourage  ere  now.     With  her  sure 


HIS  BOYHOOD  27 

sense  of  a  childless  mother,  she  felt  the  little  fellow's  need 
and  satisfied  it,  pouring  herself  into  his  hollow,  aching 
heart  until  it  brimmed.  She  healed  his  wounds  and  made 
him  whole  again.  And  when  the  other  children  were  not 
by  to  be  jealous  she  would  take  him  on  her  lap,  kiss  him, 
and  recite: 

Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  Forest  of  the  Night. 

In  that  bleak  London  Board  School,  with  scores  of  little 
boys  to  battle  with  and  try  his  emerging  manhood  on, 
Teddy  grew. 

And  in  the  clash  of  wits  and  fists  he  acquired  that  almost 
defiant  cockiness  which  seems  to  be  the  gift  of  the  great 
towns  of  to-day  to  their  children  to  enable  them  to  sur- 
mount the  miseries  of  their  conditions  on  flippant  wings. 
And  it  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  him  among  fifty 
other  boys  much  as  himself,  collared  and  collarless,  ragged 
and  tidy,  barefoot  and  well-shod,  singing  gleefully  under 
the  direction  of  the  young  Welsh  teacher  whose  faith  it 
was  that  no  one  whose  heart  was  full  of  music  could  go 
very  wrong: 

I  would  not  live  in  the  crowded  town. 

With  pavements  hard  and  gray, 
With  lengthened  streets  of  dusty  brown. 
And  painted  houses  gay. 

Where  every  boy  his  ball  must  bound 

Upon  his  neighbour's  dome, 
And  every  shout  and  every  sound 

Disturbs  some  other's  home. 


28  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

But  his  school  going  was  not  all  gain.  Because  of  it 
Teddy  Hankey  at  six  years  old  began  to  lead  a  double  life, 
compelled  thereto  by  circumstance  —  his  life  at  school, 
and  his  life  at  home. 

At  school  he  was  himself  —  a  shouting,  skipping  lad, 
rather  naughty  and  none  the  worse  for  it;  drinking  in 
good  and  evil,  and  on  the  whole  discriminating  aright 
between  the  two  in  his  wise  child-mind;  fearing  his  teachers 
a  good  deal  and  loving  them  not  a  little;  earning  a  smile  or 
a  cut  with  a  cane  —  according  as  his  deserts  were  —  and 
taking  both  in  excellent  part;  learning  something  in  the 
quiet  of  the  classroom,  and  still  more  in  the  rough-and- 
tumble  of  the  playground;  a  dirty,  joyous  little  sprite  of 
the  towns,  rinding  his  soul  amid  the  clash  of  a  thousand 
other  little  sprites  such  as  himself. 

In  the  school  and  in  the  street  he  was  Ginger  shouting 
Yah!  at  enemies;  playing  three-up;  hopping  in  mystic 
circles  chalked  upon  the  pavement;  making  up  to  strange 
men  he  liked  the  look  of  with  his  'Ello,  Guv'nor!  can  you 
give  me  chyngefor  a  waistcoat  button?  —  incredibly  fearless, 
cheeky,  chivalrous,  and  quite  astonishingly  lovable;  a 
gleam  in  the  gray  city,  a  shout  of  joy  amid  the  murky 
millions;  an  adorable  little  devil  with  dirty  nose  and  ready 
fists  and  shrill  battle-cry  —  bubbling  song  and  spirit,  love 
and  war;  the  policeman  his  sworn  enemy,  the  parson  a 
somewhat  dubious  friend. 

That  was  Teddy  Hankey  out  of  doors  and  at  school. 


HIS  BOYHOOD  29 

When  he  went  home,  and  the  door  closed  between  him 
and  the  street,  he  turned  into  quite  a  different  creature. 
All  the  love  and  battle  faded  out  of  him.  He  crept  up- 
stairs, washed,  brushed,  and  put  on  a  collar.  And  with 
the  collar  he  became  a  new  and  quite  unnatural  boy  — 
something  of  a  saint,  and  a  quite  accomplished  little  liar; 
who  said  Yes,  aunt,  and  No,  aunt,  and  was  called  Edward, 
and  helped  to  wash  up,  and  was  very  meek  and  good  and 
tidy. 

At  home  the  saucy  street  urchin  was  pious  —  because 
it  paid.  His  aunt  told  the  curate  she  was  very  pleased 
with  Edward,  bribed  him  with  food  to  learn  his  collects, 
and  gave  him  on  his  birthday  holy  little  novelettes  about 
tuberculous  boys  which  were  issued  by  religious  societies, 
who  made  100  per  cent,  profit  upon  them  and  paid  the 
writers  a  sweated  wage. 

He  believed  in  the  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church 
before  he  had  lost  his  first  teeth;  he  renounced  the  pomps 
and  vanities  of  this  wicked  world,  when  all  his  wealth 
consisted  of  a  horse-chestnut  on  a  boot-lace  and  a  stick 
of  grubby  toffee;  he  could  tell  you  the  meaning  of  the 
Sacrament  before  he  could  spell  that  word  aright;  and  he 
had  hymns  and  collects  innumerable  by  heart. 

Sunday  was  the  one  dark  spot  in  the  boy's  week. 
There  was  no  school  that  day.  His  aunt  took  him  to 
church  twice  in  a  clean  collar,  and  he  had  to  attend 
Sunday  School  morning  and  afternoon  besides. 


30  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Soon  he  became  a  member  of  the  choir,  swung  censers, 
carried  banners  in  processions,  and  received  6d.  a  week  for 
his  services. 

Teddy  lived  the  double  life  till  he  was  about  fourteen, 
and  took  less  harm  from  it  than  you  might  have  imagined. 

In  those  years  the  State  drew  out  his  soul  and  made  it 
sensitive.     It  taught  him  to  feel  and  to  think. 

At  the  end  of  that  period  it  cast  out  the  spirit  that  it 
had  quickened. 

The  boy  was  chucked  on  to  the  street  to  wrestle  as  best 
he  might  with  the  old  world  without,  a  mysterious  new 
world  at  the  same  time  seething  within  him. 

He  was  growing  fast  at  this  time  in  body  and  soul,  and 
became  suddenly  aggressive.  He  went  his  own  way  more 
at  home  and  abroad;  and  wore  his  collar  less  indoors  — 
even  at  meals.  And  he  was  not  so  good  at  washing  up  the 
plates  as  he  had  been.  If  he  was  not  actually  rude  to  his 
aunt,  he  was  at  least  no  longer  docile.  He  refused  to 
learn  further  collects,  saying  flippantly  he'd  learnt  'em  all; 
and  one  fatal  Sunday  when  his  aunt  sat  down  after 
breakfast  as  always  to  hear  his  Catechism  and  began: 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  answered  briefly: 

"Ginger."  • 

That  one  word  summed  up  the  extent  of  the  catas- 
trophe and  the  measure  of  the  moral  lapse. 

As  his  aunt  said,  it  was  'eart-breaking. 


HIS  BOYHOOD  31 

And  after  that  it  was  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that 
his  connection  with  the  Church  terminated  suddenly  and 
soon. 

Upon  the  following  saint's  day  Teddy  swung  his  censer 
with  malice  aforethought  against  the  shins  of  a  choir  boy 
who  was  known  to  be  his  mortal  enemy.  It  was  not  his 
first  offence;  and  he  was  ejected  summarily  from  the  choir. 

That  was  his  last  experience  of  Church. 

He  ran  home  whistling  and  told  his  aunt  that  his  voice 
had  cracked.  She  looked  shocked;  but  when  the  curate 
came  next  day  to  inform  her  how  things  really  lay,  she 
was  too  genteel  to  call  her  nephew  a  liar,  only  saying 
sorrowfully  that  she  had  noticed  a  great  going  back  in 
Edward  of  late. 

However,  like  the  practical  business  woman  that  she 
was,  now  that  the  State  had  dropped  her  nephew,  and 
the  Church  had  kicked  him  out,  she  set  herself  to  finding 
him  a  job. 

Teddy  became  an  errand  boy.  His  work  was  to  drop 
typewritten  circulars  at  doors  and  sometimes  stamp 
envelopes;  and  his  aunt  told  the  curate  that  her  nephew 
was  acting  as  assistant  secretary  at  the  Hammersley 
Typewriting  Office. 

Teddy  received  five  shillings  a  week  for  his  labours. 
He  gave  his  aunt  three  of  the  five,  and  spent  the  rest  on 
fags,  sweets,  high  collars,  and  dubious  sporting  prints. 

When  he  was  not  smoking,  as  often  as  not  he  had  a 


32  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

cigarette  behind  his  ear,  and  was  generous  in  allowing 
smaller  boys  not  yet  of  an  age  to  buy  smokes  of  their  own 
a  suck  at  his  fag.  Purse  he  had  none.  His  spare  cash 
he  carried  tied  in  the  end  of  his  handkerchief. 

Then  he  cheeked  his  boss  and  got  the  sack.  At  the 
same  time  he  refused  point  blank  to  be  confirmed. 

The  curate,  a  rather  sensible  young  man  outside  his 
church,  advised  Miss  Hankey  to  get  the  boy  steady 
work  away  from  home. 

After  some  inward  struggle  she  decided  to  write  to  the 
man  whose  mistress  she  had  been:  he  was  rich  and  a 
sleeping  partner  in  several  business  firms  of  position. 

He  gave  her  an  appointment  when  his  wife  was  out. 
She  went  in  her  weeds. 

The  chuckling  rogue  entered  on  her,  crisp,  pink,  impeni- 
tent as  ever,  if  somewhat  balder  and  more  plump. 

"Gad,  Nell!  you  look  more  damned  shocked  than 
ever, "  he  cried,  and  twinkled  at  her  through  his  eyeglass. 
"You're  a  strappin'  fine  gal  still,  though,  I  see." 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  have  my  past  thrown  up  at  me, 
Mr.  Jarvis,"  trembled  the  cold,  white  woman.  "I  came 
about  my  nephew  —  to  ask  if  you  could  help  him." 

Mr.  Jarvis  could  and  did. 

Teddy  was  given  work  at  Mapleton's,  the  great  leather 
factory  in  Mudsey  down  the  river  near  the  docks. 

It  was  some  little  way  from  Lambeth;  and  the  boy  went 


HIS  BOYHOOD  33 

to  lodge  near  his  work  in  a  Christian   family,  carefully 
selected  by  his  aunt. 

As  she  wished  him  good-bye  she  said  she  would 
be  glad  to  see  him  any  supper  time  on  Sunday  after  service; 
or  if  he  would  call  for  her  at  6:15  she  would  take  him  with 
her  to  Evensong. 

Then  she  pecked  him  coldly  and  ended: 
"I  hope  you'll  grow  up  to  be  a  good  man,  Edward." 
"Thank  you,  aunt,"  said  the  youth.     "Sime  to  you, 
I'm  sure.    And  thank  you  very  much  for  all  your  kind- 
ness. " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her;  and  then 
departed  down  the  street  with  rather  tender  eyes. 

She  had  made  as  good  a  foster-mother  to  him  as  a 
woman  who  cannot  love  can  hope  to  make;  and  after 
all  it  was  a  parting  —  after  ten  years;  and  she  had  not 
been  a  bad  old  aunt  to  him  —  not  by  'alf  she  'adn't. 


IV 
HIS  YOUTH 

Mudsey  was  south  of  the  river  and  east  of  Tower 
Bridge;  and  in  Mudsey  lived  Doctor  English. 

He  was  a  big  man  with  tranquil  eyes  and  a  high  forehead 
across  which  ran  a  great  sagacious  furrow.  With  his  soft 
brown  beard  and  slouch  hat  he  looked  more  like  a  pioneer 
than  a  professional  man;  and  a  touch  of  sun  would  burn 
him  a  deep  bronze  and  add  to  his  South  African  air.  And 
a  pioneer  he  was  —  not  in  the  jungles  and  deserts  of 
savage  continents,  but  in  the  dark  heart  of  Civilization. 
You  had  but  to  see  him  without  his  hat  to  know  that  he 
was  not  quite  the  ordinary  man.  There  was  something 
lofty  and  detached  about  his  face. 

Doctor  English  was  of  those  who  are  just  one  step  ahead 
of  their  own  generation.  If  he  lived  to  be  an  old  man 
humanity  would  have  caught  him  up,  and  he  would  die 
abreast  of  his  times.  He  was  hardly  a  rebel,  and  scarcely 
a  prophet;  though  he  had  about  him  enough  of  both  to 
make  him  interesting  and  not  quite  enough  to  isolate  him. 

All  his  life  he  had  cherished  the  ineradicable  convic- 
tion that  Something  was  coming,  Something  Big  and 

34 


HIS  YOUTH  35 

Beautiful.  As  a  child  he  had  called  that  Something 
Christ,  learning  so  to  do  from  his  mother  whom  he  loved. 

His  father,  a  successful  wholesale  chemist  without  ideals 
but  of  conspicuous  integrity,  had  been  able  to  send  his  son 
to  Cambridge.  There  the  young  man  had  begun  to  read 
for  Holy  Orders,  only  to  find  as  the  new  knowledge  of  the 
last  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  flooded  in  upon  him 
that  there  was  no  room  for  his  growing  soul  within  the 
trammels  of  a  church  whose  philosophy  had  not  changed 
materially  since  the  days  of  St.  Augustine. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  when  he  should  have  been 
writing  essays  on  the  Trinity  he  was  walking  the  wards  of 
a  great  London  hospital,  reading  for  himself  the  Book  of 
Life  and  learning  at  first-hand  of  the  disease,  moral  and 
physical,  of  the  world  with  which  he  meant  to  battle. 
At  the  elbows  of  great  surgeons,  and  the  bedsides  of  dying 
prostitutes,  in  the  accident  ward,  the  operating  theatre, 
the  slums  into  which  his  hospital  bade  him  dive  to  succour 
travailing  women,  he  learned  more  perhaps  of  the  Mind 
of  the  Maker  of  it  all,  His  purpose  and  His  practice,  than 
he  would  have  done  in  the  lecture-rooms  and  chapel  of  a 
theological  college. 

Doing  well  at  the  hospital,  he  was  offered  an  appoint- 
ment upon  the  staff.  But  Edmund  English  had  the  soul 
of  a  missionary;  and  if  in  those  days  he  possessed  any 
ambition  it  was  political  rather  than  professional. 

The  big  young  man  with  the  brown  beard  and  steady 


36  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

eyes  left  the  hospital  with  a  new  philosophy  and  his  old 
faith. 

Something  was  coming;  and  It  was  Big  and  Beautiful. 

He  felt  It  within  him  —  dim,  mysterious :  he  saw  It 
without  him  —  a  gleam  here  and  there  lighting  the  dark- 
ness; a  sense  of  Dawn  more  suspected  than  seen;  a 
hope,  a  vision,  a  prophecy. 

When  he  settled  down  in  Mudsey  he  no  longer  called 
his  Something  Christ;  he  spoke  of  it  as  Democracy;  and 
he  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  evolutionary  Socialists  in  the 
country. 

That  was  in  the  early  '80's;  and  Socialism  in  England, 
killed  for  two  decades  by  the  Commune  and  Paris  mas- 
sacre, had  not  shaken  off  its  catastrophic  shackles. 

But  young  Doctor  English  settled  down  to  a  shilling 
practice  in  Mudsey  with  the  intention  of  making  it  and 
the  world  Socialist  in  ten  years.  To  that  end  he  wore  a 
red  tie  and  helped  to  found  the  Fabian  Society. 

At  the  end  of  the  appointed  time,  when  he  was  ten  years 
older  than  he  had  been  at  the  beginning,  he  stood  for 
Parliament  and  polled  800  votes,  which  was  double  the 
number  that  he  had  expected.  Then  when  the  London 
County  Council  came  into  being  he  transferred  his 
ambition  from  Westminster  to  Spring  Gardens,  and  was 
Progressive  Member  for  Mudsey  just  long  enough  to 
discover  that  his  talent  did  not  lie  in  the  political  arena. 

As  the  dome  of  his  head  began  to  shine,  and  the  fold 


HIS  YOUTH  37 

across  his  forehead  to  deepen,  he  wore  his  red  tie  less  and 
the  quiet  light  gathered  in  his  eyes. 

But  his  sense  that  Something  was  coming,  and  that  It 
was  Big  and  Beautiful  grew  on  him  and  always  grew. 

He  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  It  stealing  in  dim 
waves  over  the  waste  of  house-tops.  Edmund  English 
would  not  live  to  see  anything  but  a  far-off  glimmering  of 
It;  but  It  was  coming. 

Yes,  It  was  coming  —  without  any  help  from  him: 
for  It  was  in  the  air,  creeping  on  over  the  world,  a  great 
tide  that  none  could  stay. 

When  Socialism  became  so  respectable  that  church 
conferences  discussed  it,  Doctor  English  felt  that  he  could 
leave  the  leading  and  devote  himself  henceforth  to  the 
building  up  of  the  souls  of  individuals  in  satisfactory 
bodies. 

And  his  touch  here  was  very  sure;  for  he  was  a  born  doc- 
tor of  flesh  and  spirit;  and  the  Church  had  lost  in  him  a 
great  asset. 

But  his  approach  to  the  human  soul  was  personal  and 
physiological  rather  than  ecclesiastical. 

If  there  was  much  of  the  missionary  about  him  there 
was  nothing  of  the  priest.  He  moved  as  a  man  among 
men,  and  was  no  conscious  saviour  of  souls. 

Doctor  English  believed  with  passion  in  the  spiritual 
equality  of  all  men,  while  he  admitted  their  intellectual 


38  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

distinctions.  The  barrier  of  class  did  not  exist  for  him. 
He  spoke  to  every  man,  soul  to  soul.  For  him  mankind 
was  one  in  essence  and  differentiated  only  by  accidents. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Mudsey  loved  him;  and  that  his 
photograph  was  to  be  found  in  all  sorts  of  strange  dens  in 
that  reeking  quarter  by  the  river. 

When  Doctor  English  resigned  his  County  Council 
work,  he  and  the  sister,  with  whom  he  lived,  started  a 
night  school  for  boys  over  fourteen. 

The  school  was  open  for  two  hours  a  night  three  nights 
a  week.  Down  a  dim  alley  off  Farthing  Lane  poured  the 
young  rowdies  of  Mudsey  into  a  little  bare  room  where 
their  souls  were  burnished  and  their  feet  planted  in  the  way. 

Doctor  English  ran  his  school  on  characteristically  un- 
orthodox lines. 

"What  d'you  teach  'em?"  asked  a  friend. 

"Mostly  nowt,"  replied  the  big  doctor.  "We  get  'em 
in  off  the  streets." 

The  doctor  somewhat  exaggerated  his  practice  of 
negation.  But  in  truth  he  was  his  boys'  best  education; 
though  they  did  not  know  it,  neither  did  he.  They  fed 
upon  his  personality,  inhaled  his  goodness,  and  grew  in 
body  and  spirit  on  the  sustenance  received  from  his  big 
laugh,  his  bass  voice,  the  sway  of  his  great  shoulders,  the 
friendship  deep  and  splendid  in  his  eye,  the  manhood  of 
his  hand-grip,  and  that  huge  Hullo!  of  his. 


HIS  YOUTH  39 

For  the  rest  he  boxed  with  his  boys,  wrestled  with  them, 
and  taught  them  gymnastics  and  Swedish  exercises.  He 
performed  minor  miracles  upon  their  bodies,  and  roused 
their  swift  young  souls  to  an  astonished  sense  of  the  won- 
der of  mere  living.  He  bought  them  penny  whistles  and 
taught  them  to  play  "Three  Blind  Mice"  in  parts.  A 
visitor  would  often  see  the  great  doctor  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves marching  round  the  room  piping  for  his  life,  a 
ragged  tail  of  the  rats  of  Mudsey  frisking  at  his  heels  with 
swollen  cheeks  and  busy  fingers,  their  eyes  intent  and 
hearts  in  heaven. 

"The  unp'yed  piper  of  Mudsey,"  a  flippant  lady  friend 
called  him. 

Miss  English  did  not  entirely  approve  of  her  brother's 
scholastic  methods  or  lack  of  them.  A  woman  of  charac- 
ter and  principle,  radiating  efficiency  and  common-sense 
from  behind  her  high  perched  pince-nez,  she  believed  very 
much  in  definite  instruction  and  most  of  all  in  sound 
church  teaching. 

A  convinced  Imperialist,  she  was  mildly  military  in  her 
own  pedagogic  methods.  With  a  tap  of  her  pointing  rod 
upon  the  floor  she  would  recall  to  herself  the  attention  of 
her  reluctant  class,  whose  erring  eyes  wandered  too  often 
to  Doctor  English  initiating  luckier  pals  into  the  mysteries 
of  the  half-Nelson,  or  Cumberland  back-heel  in  the  corner. 
She  instructed  the  boys  in  history,  ancient  and  modern, 
while  she  pointed  frequently  to  a  red-splotched  map  of  the 


40  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

British  Empire  that  hung  upon  the  wall;  she  taught  them 
patriotic  songs;  lectured  them  on  their  morals  and  their 
manners;  read  Bible  stories  to  them  with  comments, 
pointed  and  personal;  and  was  altogether  too  good  for 
them  to  be  very  popular.  In  these  matters,  as  in  most, 
she  was  free  to  go  her  own  way;  but  it  was  a  standing 
grievance  with  her  that  Doctor  English  would  not  allow 
religion  to  be  taught  in  his  school. 

"Can  you  teach  religion?"  he  would  ask  in  his  exasper- 
atingly  mild  way,  when  heckled  on  the  point. 

Miss  English  was  the  Martha  of  Mudsey. 

Determined  and  dogmatic,  capable  and  practical  to  a 
degree,  she  ran  boot-clubs,  directed  the  Country  Holiday 
Fund,  managed  the  managers  of  the  Sunday  School, 
organized  the  vicar,  administrated  the  parish  nurse,  and 
visited  the  Workhouse.  Her  sturdy  figure  and  short 
workmanlike  skirt,  astonishingly  trim,  were  to  be  seen  at 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  flitting  in  and  out  of  noisome 
human  burrows,  hunting  down  alleys,  standing  at  dark 
doors. 

The  poor  of  Mudsey  did  not  love  her  as  they  loved  her 
brother;  they  could  not  take  her  in  as  they  could  him  — 
she  was  too  critical.  But  the  best  of  them  respected  her; 
and  when  they  were  in  trouble  went  to  her  before  the  vicar. 

An  earnest  woman,  very  religious  in  her  limited  way, 
she  brought  into  her  brother's  life  a  steadying  balance,  a 


HIS  YOUTH  41 

critical  element,  his  large  and  unsuspicious  nature  needed 
in  a  world  that  is  wideawake  to  those  who  can  be  preyed 
upon.  There  were  poor  men  in  Mudsey  who  remembered 
still  the  glorious  days  when  the  young  doctor  came 
among  them  with  no  sister  to  guard  his  time  and  purse. 
All  that  had  been  changed  since  the  advent  of  Miss 
English.  She  protected  her  brother  from  himself  and 
others.    . 

A  strong  conservative  and  church-woman,  she  had  for 
her  brother's  Socialism  a  somewhat  irritated  toleration, 
excusing  it  on  the  ground  that  Edmund  was  a  dreamer  and 
didn't  matter. 

The  pair,  secure  and  solid  in  their  middle-class  comfort, 
stood  amidst  the  wind-blown  workers  of  Mudsey,  whom 
any  gust  might  trundle  to  the  brink  of  the  Abyss,  like 
deep-rooted  trees  in  the  whirl  of  autumn  leaves. 

When  Teddy  Hankey  went  to  live  in  Mudsey  he  came 
into  contact  with  Doctor  English  and  his  sister  through  the 
night  school. 

This  man  and  woman  laid  their  cool  fingers  on  the  lad 
and  calmed  the  fever  in  his  blood.  In  their  firm  and 
capable  hands  body  and  mind  settled  down  to  the  quiet 
business  of  living.  Teddy  began  to  find  his  feet.  The 
troubles  of  the  boy  were  passing;  the  troubles  of  the  man 
were  still  far.  This  was  that  bright  breathing  space  which 
comes  in  the  life  of  many  a  worker  before  he  has  begun  to 


42  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

feel  the  weight  of  the  fabric  that  rests  upon  his  shoulders 
and  is  crushing  him  to  earth. 

There  was  no  more  regular  attendant  at  the  night 
school  than  Teddy.  He  had  no  inordinate  desire  for 
knowledge;  but  he  loved  the  doctor  with  the  passion  of 
fifteen,  and  liked  to  spar  with  Miss  English,  who  was  as 
combative  as  himself. 

Teddy's  reaction  against  what  he  called  religion  had  by 
no  means  spent  itself  as  yet. 

"HTm  a  h' atheist,"  he  was  fond  of  affirming  cheerfully 
at  this  time.  "I  don't  care,"  and  swaggered  recklessly 
down  the  street,  conscious  that  in  cheeking  the  Almighty 
he  was  earning  some  just  reputation  for  hardihood 
among  his  mates. 

At  the  same  time  he  painted  texts  zealously  on  Sundays 
till  he  was  past  seventeen;  and  joined  with  gusto  in  the 
hymns  that  Doctor  English  led. 

Freethinker  as  he  alleged  himself  to  be,  the  lad  in  his 
less  militant  moments  would  admit  of  Doctor  English  to 
a  pal. 

"I  like  to  hear  'im  jawin'  about  oP  Jesus." 

One  great  event  happened  in  the  life  of  each  of  Doctor 
English's  boys  while  he  was  at  the  school. 

At  some  time  or  other,  sooner  rather  than  later,  he  went 
by  appointment  to  see  the  doctor  in  his  study  alone. 


HIS  YOUTH  43 

On  these  occasions  the  doctor  preached  on  an  ancient 

text: 

"The  Wages  of  Sin  is  Death." 

But  it  was  not  the  ordinary  sort  of  sermon.  It  was  very- 
simple,  very  direct,  and  couched  in  the  homely  language 
of  every  day. 

The  word  Sin  was  not  mentioned.  God,  the  Devil, 
Heaven  and  Hell  were  not  introduced.  If  it  was  a  ser- 
mon at  all  it  was  the  sermon  of  the  Future — scientific 
rather  than  sacerdotal,  very  human,  and  shot  with  smiles. 

And  the  wonder  of  it  was  that  no  boy  knew  he  had  been 
sermonized  at  all.  He  only  knew  that  a  flood  of  healing 
light  had  been  poured  in  upon  the  dark  places  of  his  life. 

To  him  it  was  a  plain  talk  by  a  man  on  a  subject  usually 
discussed  by  boys  alone  in  alleys  and  dark  corners  along 
Mudsey  Wall. 

That  visit  to  the  doctor  was  one  of  the  most  memorable 
incidents  in  Teddy's  life.  He  remembered  it  always  — 
the  quiet,  comfortable,  airy  room,  the  doctor's  bald  head 
and  steady  eyes,  the  green  shade  of  the  lamp,  the  quiet 
voice  and  occasional  ripple  of  laughter. 

The  doctor  talked  to  him  simply  and  naturally  about 
his  body,  its  nature,  how  to  control,  and  why  to  control  it, 
and  the  consequences  of  lack  of  control.  He  showed  him 
a  few  pictures,  patted  him  on  the  back,  and  shook  him  by 
the  hand. 

Teddy  departed  with  uplifted  heart. 


44  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

A  younger  pal,  not  yet  initiated,  was  waiting  him  out- 
side. 

" What's  he  tell  you?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Why,  tells  you  not  to  make  a  blimey  fool  o'  yourself," 
answered  Teddy,  frank  and  flippant. 

The  other  scoffed. 

"And  didn't  you  know  that  afore?"  he  asked. 

"You  shut  your  'ead,"  retorted  Teddy,  "or  I'll  shut 
it  for  you. " 

At  eighteen  Teddy  left  the  school  perforce,  and  passed 
out  into  the  world. 

"We  can  only  try  to  set  'em  on  their  feet,"  said  Doctor 
English. 

And  often  it  was  enough. 

Many  the  Mudsey  boy  he  had  steered  safely  through 
the  shoals,  quicksands,  and  foundering  deeps  of  the  transi- 
tion sea  that  separates  the  boy  from  the  man;  and  Teddy 
Hankey  was  of  that  number. 


HIS  MANHOOD 

Teddy  Hankey  was  now  grown  up. 

A  small  man  and  a  cockey  with  a  very  pretty  wit,  he 
walked  swiftly  on  thin  bowed  legs,  his  shoulders  rather 
round,  his  elbows  rather  out,  and  amused  blue  eyes, 
bright  as  a  bird's,  peeping  here  and  there  and  everywhere. 

His  brain  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  and  not  much  more 
massive. 

And  there  was  something  fiercely  spiritual  about  him. 

With  his  flaming  hair  and  bright  blue  eyes  he  looked 
like  a  figure  stepped  down  from  a  picture  by  a  Primitive 
on  the  walls  of  the  National  Gallery  and  walking  the 
streets  of  London  in  dittoes. 

He  was  essentially  a  child  of  the  towns,  a  creature  of 
to-day  —  this  red-headed  wisp  of  a  man,  brilliant  in  his 
way;  ecstatic,  erratic,  swift  and  uncertain,  a  promise 
rather  than  a  performance. 

Centuries  stood  between  him  and  the  dull  stolidity  of 
his  Sussex  forbears,  their  big  bone,  slow  minds  and  mas- 
sive animality. 

Teddy  Hankey  was  the  chrysalis  man  of  our  day. 

45 


46  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  earth-crawling  caterpillar  was  dead;  and  the  butterfly 
had  not  yet  emerged. 

Teddy  had  his  mother's  eyes,  but  shot  with  surreptitious 
laughter;  and  in  repose  his  face  was  anxious,  but  otherwise 
spirited  and  full  of  fire. 

Nimble  in  wit  and  limb,  there  was  about  him  that 
little  touch  of  flippancy,  of  almost  foreign  gaiety,  that  is 
the  mark  of  the  young  men  of  the  towns  to-day. 

Anybody  less  akin  to  the  John  Bull  of  history  and  tra- 
dition it  would  be  hard  to  conceive. 

Beef  and  beer  had  not  gone  to  his  making.  He  was 
compact  of  jam,  fried  fish,  and  peppermint. 

Whether  for  that  reason  or  a  better,  he  possessed  in  no 
means  that  divine  gift  of  imagination  which  perhaps  more 
than  any  other  distinguishes  the  worker  in  the  city  from 
the  labourer  in  the  country.  He  was  emotional,  enthusi- 
astic, of  April  moods  and  impulses,  liable  to  deep  depres- 
sions and  strange  exaltations.  Cocky  and  courageous,  he 
was  a  bounder  of  the  class  that  can  bound  without  offence, 
because  it  is  so  clearly  their  nature  so  to  do. 

His  work  was  steady;  and  he  was  earning  good  money. 
He  had  nothing  to  fear  and  not  very  much  to  be  ashamed 
of.  London  was  his  world;  and  it  was  a  good  world.  He 
followed  its  politics,  its  recreations,  and  above  all  its 
crimes  with  gusto.  There  were  a  lot  of  men  and  women 
about.  Some  of  them  were  rich;  some  of  them  were  poor; 
most  of  them  were  funny,  and  a  good  few  were  his  friends. 


HIS  MANHOOD  47 

Life  for  him  at  present  was  a  peep-show  and  a  panto- 
mime. He  walked  through  it  briskly,  winking  confiden- 
tially at  one,  shouting  What  ho!  at  another,  and  spitting 
freely  on  the  pavements. 

Owing  to  the  happy  chance  that  he  owned  an  aunt  who 
had  been  the  mistress  of  a  gentleman,  he  was  enabled  to 
pass  from  boy  to  man  in  the  same  occupation.  He  knew 
nothing  of  that  fatal  lapse  which  comes  for  most  Mudsey 
men  as  the  brief  and  busy  period  of  boyhood  tails  off  into 
the  desultory  and  disintegrating  labour  of  the  casual 
waterside  worker. 

Mapleton's  heavy  leather  works  were  the  biggest  in  the 
metropolis  and  perhaps  in  the  world.  In  them  the  whole 
process  of  manufacture  from  the  liming  of  the  raw  hides 
to  currying  the  leather  for  the  finished  article  was  carried 
out.  Beginning  as  a  boy,  glue-bashing  behind  a  beam- 
man  in  the  pits,  Teddy,  a  sharp  lad,  rose  methodically,  till 
he  reached  the  splitting  shed. 

Thus  placed  by  circumstance  well  above  the  class  which 
has  to  sneak  and  cadge  and  lie  to  live,  he  could  afford  to 
tell  the  truth  and  be  respectable;  and  he  made  the  most  of 
his  rare  opportunities. 

The  fear  of  unemployment  did  not  haunt  him:  he  was 
young,  fairly  strong  —  save  for  a  cough  which  bothered 
him  in  winter  —  and  above  all  a  bachelor,  and  determined 
to  remain  so. 


48  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

When  asked  if  he  was  married  he  would  answer  with 
scorn: 

"No  fear!" 

In  those  days  he  lived  like  a  king  and  could  well  afford 
to.  He  was  earning  quite  as  much  money  as  was  good  for 
him;  had  a  room  to  himself,  and  a  landlady  who  spoiled 
him.  His  finger-tips  were  brown  with  rolling  fags:  for 
he  never  smoked  a  pipe;  and  he  owned  a  pair  of  buttoned 
boots  with  patent-leather  toes. 

As  often  as  not  he  wore  a  collar  even  on  a  week  day  and 
on  holidays  a  tie-pin. 

Many  people  mistook  him  for  a  clerk. 

Certainly  Abraham  Boniface  would  not  have  recog- 
nized his  grandson  for  blood  of  his. 

Like  most  of  his  class  he  had  no  so-called  religion,  and 
never  went  near  a  parson. 

When  he  left  the  school  at  Farthing  Lane,  a  mate  at  the 
works,  at  the  instigation  of  Miss  English,  had  tried  to  in- 
duce him  to  join  a  men's  club  run  by  a  University  Mission. 

Teddy  had  met  his  friend's  blandishments  with  a  firm, 
"Not  me." 

No  more  religion  for  him.  He'd  been  in  religion  when 
he  was  a  kid,  and  knew  all  about  that,  thank  ye.  Religion 
was  all  right  as  a  livin';  but  where's  the  sense  in  it  for 
chaps?  —  unless  you're  out  of  work.  And  Teddy  didn't 
mean  to  be  out  of  work.  Therefore  he  could  afford  to  be 
independent. 


HIS  MANHOOD  49 

Iustead  of  going  to  church,  or  attending  church  clubs, 
he  read  the  Clarion  and  scoffed  at  its  scoffings;  for  the 
genial  skepticism  of  the  towns  was  his  in  full. 

A  parson  was  to  him  a  standing  joke;  and  he  rarely- 
passed  one  by  without  winking  to  himself  or  nudging  the 
companion  he  was  with. 

On  Sunday  afternoon,  his  carroty  hair  and  spirited  blue 
eyes  might  often  he  seen  in  a  crowd  about  a  stump,  as  he 
heckled  a  preacher  and  asked  blasphemous  questions. 

Yet  if  he  was  not  religious  he  was  on  the  whole  a  far 
better  man  than  his  churchgoing  ancestors,  though  the 
fear  of  Hell  was  no  longer  before  his  eyes.  His  talk  if 
slangy  was  fairly  clean.  And  while  he  was  fond  of  chaffing 
women  he  never  harmed  them.  It  may  be  that  the  strain 
of  gentler  blood  he  inherited  from  his  mother  kept  him 
straight;  it  may  be  that  his  vitality  was  somewhat  less  than 
that  of  his  mates.  Certainly  he  had  far  fewer  lady  friends 
than  most  of  his  peers. 

As  a  set-off  against  this,  and  to  avoid  the  reproach  of 
being  good,  he  played  the  sporting  blood  with  the  furious 
zeal  of  the  cockney,  and  earned  enough  reputation  in  the 
part  to  carry  him  through  and  atone  for  his  idiosyncrasy. 

He  knew  by  heart  the  history  and  achievements  of 
most  of  the  big  fighting  men  and  athletes  of  his  day. 
Some  he  had  seen  at  the  halls  —  strong  men,  wrestling 
men,  acrobats;  the  pictures  of  others,  huge-shouldered 
beasts,  crouching  for  a  spring,  adorned  his  room.    He 


50  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

could  patter  the  racy  lingo  of  the  ring  with  the  best,  and 
was  on  nodding  terms  with  half-a-dozen  shaven-headed, 
blue-chinned  young  ruffians  who  pushed  mud  peacefully 
all  the  week  for  the  Borough  and  used  their  dukes  more  or 
less  professionally  on  the  Sabbath. 

At  some  peril  to  himself,  by  reason  of  possible  police- 
raids,  he  haunted  ill-lit  rooms  and  watched  two  half- 
naked  men  bash  each  other  on  the  snout  with  a  violence 
varying  in  its  degree  with  the  purse  put  up. 

At  one  such  encounter  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  have  a 
spot  of  blood  fall  upon  his  cuff.  That  shirt  remained 
jealously  unwashed  for  weeks.  He  wore  it  Sunday  after 
Sunday  with  protruding  cuff.  In  a  mysterious  and 
frowning  silence  he  gathered  about  him  a  little  band  of 
conspirators,  lead  them  down  Mudsey  Wall,  and  in  a 
secret  archway  there  discovered  to  them  the  sign  and  seal 
of  his  maturity.     He  was  blooded:  a  man. 

Once  he  was  privileged  to  see  a  woman  with  her  hands 
tied  behind  her  worrying  rats  upon  her  knees.  This  was 
at  the  height  of  his  romantic  period.  A  little  later  he 
kept  a  bulldog  in  a  backyard,  to  Miss  English's  disgust. 
He  did  not  like  the  bulldog  much;  but  he  liked  the  swag- 
ger of  him,  especially  on  Sunday  when  he  took  B.  P., 
mildest  of  dogs,  out  for  a  walk  upon  a  chain  and  met  Miss 
English  on  the  way  to  church,  who  refused  to  acknowledge 
him.  After  six  months  the  bulldog  died.  Teddy  was 
relieved,    but   lost   in   gloom,    and    suspected   poison  — 


HIS  MANHOOD  51 

without  cause.  The  incident,  mysterious  as  it  seemed, 
gave  him  distinction  for  a  time  among  his  mates,  and 
when  it  was  known  that  he  would  never  keep  another, 
that  his  'eart  was  fair  broke,  and  that  he  would  not  have 
taken  a  hundred  quid  for  his  favourite  who  was  not  worth 
as  many  shillings,  the  women  too  regarded  him  with 
favourable  interest. 

At  this  period  of  his  career  you  might  often  see  him 
at  street  corners,  his  eyes  furtive  and  watchful  for  Doctor 
English,  hobnobbing  with  bookmakers.  Every  now  and 
then  upon  a  Saturday  he  attended  a  race-meeting  and 
squandered  his  savings  there;  and  once  on  his  way  home 
from  Kempton  he  got  mildly  drunk. 

Miss  English,  who  heard  all  things,  came  round  to  see 
him  next  day  in  the  lodgings  in  which  she  had  planted  him 
after  he  had  removed  himself  from  the  Christian  family 
provided  for  him  by  his  aunt. 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  she  said  severely. 

Teddy  could  lie  to  Miss  English  with  ease  and  gusto, 
but  not  to  her  brother. 

He  faced  her  now  fearlessly. 

"What,  Miss?" 

"You!"  said  the  solid  woman.     "Saturday?" 

The  other's  ingenuous  blue  eyes  were  wide,  his  young 
face  earnest.  Anybody  but  Miss  English  might  have 
been  taken  in. 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  nothin, '  Miss. " 


52  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"You  do!    In  Java  Street.    Drunk.     Beastly." 

Teddy  hung  his  head  appropriately.  It  was  clearly  a 
waste  of  time  and  talents  to  he  further. 

"I  may  have  made  a  little  mistake,  Miss, "  he  muttered. 
"Come  from  me  bein'  teetotal.     Two  pennorth  done  it," 

"It  comes  from  your  never  going  to  church  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end,"  the  other  answered  severely.  "What 
else  can  you  expect?"  He  stood  before  her  downcast  for 
the  sake  of  decency.     "Of  course  I  shall  tell  the  doctor." 

Teddy  spurted  into  sudden  life. 

"That  you  won't,  Miss!"  he  cried,  and,  brushing  fiercely 
past  her,  he  darted  down  the  street. 

Five  minutes  later  he  stood  in  the  doctor's  study,  wring- 
ing his  cap  and  confessing  his  sin. 

The  big  man  looked  gloomy  as  a  mountain  in  mist. 

"I've  heard  all  about  it,  Hankey,"  he  said. 

The  little  cockney  flared  white. 

"Hankey  is  it,  sir?    Hankey!"  he  snorted. 

The  other  ignored  him. 

"It's  being  in  with  those  bookies,"  he  said.  "I  know. 
I've  known  all  along." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  there. 

"Is  it  the  first  time?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  doctor  swung  slowly  round. 

"Is  it  the  last  time?" 

"Yes,  sir," 


HIS  MANHOOD  53 

The  big  man  strode  heavily  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
"Get  out,  you  ass!"  he  said  briefly. 
Teddy  went,  drooping  and  dumb;  and  as  he  did  so  the 
doctor  gave  him  his  hand. 

Two  days  later  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him  in  the  street. 

"Hullo,  Ted." 

"Hullo,  sir." 

Doctor  English,  gravely  smiling,  dismounted  from  his 
bicycle. 

"Miss  English  says  you  must  go  to  church  or  get 
married, "  he  announced. 

Then  he  mounted  and  wheeled  slowly  away. 

"All  right,  sir,"  cried  Teddy  cockily.  "You  know 
which." 


VI 

HIS  MARRIAGE 

At  a  discreetly  later  age  than  most  of  his  mates,  Teddy 
Hankey  fell  in  love. 

The  girl's  name  was  Louie  Lapwing.  She  was  of  his 
own  social  standing  —  that  is  to  say,  well  above  the  class 
of  girl  whose  only  obvious  relaxation  is  immorality. 

Both  her  father  and  mother  had  been  in  service  and 
died  young.  Their  little  daughter  had  been  brought  up 
by  a  respectable  old  publican,  her  uncle.  He  too  had 
died,  but  not  till  he  had  seen  his  niece  established  in  a  good 
position  as  a  bodice-embroiderer  in  a  workship  in  Mudsey. 
There  she  earned  wages  ample  enough  to  give  her  a  bed- 
room to  herself,  innocent  pleasures  and  a  chance  to  live  as 
ninety-nine  women  out  of  every  hundred  would  live 
granted  the  opportunity. 

Louie  Lapwing  was  a  class  above  the  average  Mudsey 
girl  who  worked  in  a  jam  factory  and  earned  her  lis.  a 
week  when  in  full  work.  Her  wages  were  better,  and  her 
standard  of  life  higher.  She  dressed  more  simply  and  in 
better  taste.  There  was  not  a  touch  of  the  tawdry  about 
her.     Her  brown  hair  swept  simply  back  from  her  fore- 

54 


HIS  MARRIAGE  55 

head  was  never  in  curling  pins.  The  rows  of  mock  pearls, 
the  flimsy  ornaments,  the  hair  arranged  in  that  crisp  curled 
fashion,  close  to  the  head  with  tight  little  plaits  and  a 
ripple  at  the  forehead  and  above  each  ear,  that  gives  her 
half -barbarous  charm  of  the  filly  at  a  fair  to  the  cockney 
girl,  were  not  for  her. 

She  looked  like  a  lady's  maid,  and  dressed  like  one.  No 
man  had  ever  taken  liberties  with  her  or  offered  to.  Her 
atmosphere  and  not  her  tongue  was  her  protection.  She 
stood  somewhat  apart.  And  the  young  men  of  Mudsey 
felt  it  and  left  her  alone. 

Yet  with  her  swimming  dimple  in  either  cheek,  her  soft 
eyes,  her  healthy  pallor,  and  her  gentle  smiling  air,  not 
belied  by  that  firm  mouth  of  hers,  there  were  few  sweeter 
women  to  be  seen  south  of  the  river. 

Teddy  Hankey  at  least  recognized  it;  and  it  was  not 
long  before  he  could  give  out  that  he  was  suited  at  last. 
And  there  was  never  anything  more  simple  or  more  fair 
than  that  Mudsey  sweethearting.  Both  were  gentle; 
both  were  pure.  Once  she  went  to  his  room  and  sat 
upon  his  bed  while  he  watched  her  from  the  window  with 
shy,  happy  eyes.  He  never  went  to  hers;  but  more  than 
once  when  the  few  grimy  laburnums  in  Mudsey  had 
broken  into  lovely  and  surprising  sprays  of  green,  she 
found  her  room  sweet  with  violets  when  she  returned  from 
work. 

The  young  couple  liked  to  get  away  from  the  traffic  and 


56  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

the  lamps  and  to  walk  down  narrow  Mudsey  Wall  at 
night  between  high  dark  warehouses  with  peeps  of  the 
river  shining  and  swirling  through  archways  and  along 
wharf-sides,  the  moon  glimmering  down  from  a  watery 
waste  over  tall  chimneys  and  tumbling  roofs. 

In  an  opening  in  Mudsey  Wall  some  steps,  crowded 
between  two  warehouses,  led  down  to  the  river.  At  the 
foot  of  them  the  receding  tide  would  leave  a  patch  of  wet 
shingle.  From  it  a  rough  stone-way  dipped  into  the 
water,  marking  the  spot  where  of  old,  before  the  sepulchral 
array  of  warehouses  had  risen  on  the  bank,  a  ferry  had 
plied  across  the  river  to  Wapping  on  the  north  bank. 

On  this  tiny  streak  of  shore  the  two  passed  many  a  deep 
and  silent  hour. 

Here  the  river  lived  and  loved  beside  them  as  they 
twined  their  arms  and  wreathed  their  spirits.  Sitting 
on  the  stone-way,  cheek  on  cheek,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
they  would  watch  it  in  a  hush  of  happy  tears. 

And  in  that  quiet  corner,  the  river  slipping  in  and  out 
of  his  mind  and  the  memories  with  it,  the  sounds  of 
the  phantom  city  going  down  in  darkness  for  miles  all 
about  them,  he  told  the  woman  he  loved  truthfully  of 
his  life. 

"I  ain't  been  much,"  he  said.  "But  I  been  straight." 
And  for  some  reason  there  were  tears  in  his  voice  as  he 
said  it. 

"I'm  sure  you  have,  Ted,"  replied  the  girl  at  his  side, 


HIS  MARRIAGE  57 

and  added  with  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  her  class, 
"So'vel." 

He  told  her  what  he  remembered  of  his  childhood  and 
his  mother,  describing  her  face  as  he  had  seen  it  looking 
out  of  the  cab  at  him. 

"  That's  the  last  I  see  of  mother, "  he  said. 

He  stood  beneath  a  warehouse  under  a  desolate  silver- 
dappled  sky,  the  broad  satin-like  riband  of  river  swift  and 
darkling  at  his  feet,  and  beyond  it  tall  forest  chimneys 
rising  out  of  a  dense  undergrowth  of  dwarf  houses. 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  awe. 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"I  don't  know. 

"Is  she  alive?" 

"  Can't  say     .     .     .     Aunt  never  mentioned. " 

A  dim  sense  of  the  horror  of  it,  the  loneliness,  the  love- 
lessness,  here  amid  these  crowding  millions,  this  man  who 
knew  nothing  of  his  mother's  fate,  that  mother  who  knew 
nothing  of  her  son's,  stole  in  upon  the  young  woman's 
mothering  heart. 

She  pressed  her  lover's  arm. 

"I  expect  she  loved  you,  Ted." 

Old  dim  emotions  stirred  him. 

"Very  like,"  he  answered  huskily. 

"  I  expect  it  tore  her. " 

He  nodded,  his  gaze  held  by  the  slipping  waters  at  his 
feet. 


58  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"I  can  see  her  eyes  now.  'Meet  me  at  the  river/ 
mother  says. " 

They  climbed  the  steps  and  reentered  Mudsey  Wall 
arm  in  arm;  and  she  was  crying. 

"It  wasn't  the  Workhouse  they  took  her  to?"  she  asked, 
low. 

She  felt  him  stiffen  beneath  her  hand. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  touched  his  forehead.     "Up  here!" 

She  dried  her  eyes. 

"Strange  her  going  like  that." 

"It  was  dad's  death,"  he  answered.  "That  fair  broke 
her  up." 

"He  must  have  been  a  good  man  for  her  to  take  on  like 
that." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  shining  eyes. 

"Yes,  he  was  good,"  he  said,  and  added  in  his  swift 
ecstatic  way,  "My  h'eye!  he  wasn't  half  a  man  neether. 
See  him  when  he  wash  isself  o'  Sunday.  Sich  arms  and 
legs  on  him.  Only  wish  I  took  after  'im.  I'm  mother's 
son.     Aunt  Eleanor  always  says  that. " 

He  took  her  to  see  his  aunt. 

"She's  a  card,"  whispered  Teddy,  as  he  knocked. 
"That's  what  she  is  —  a  fair  card.  Yet  she  wasn't  a  bad 
oP  aunt  to  me  except  only  when  she  was  carryin'  on  about 
conversion  or  spittin'  out  collects. " 

Teddy  found  his  aunt  older,  gentler,  and  somehow 
rather  pathetic.    There  was  something  about  Loo  that 


HIS  MARRIAGE  59 

seemed  to  thaw  the  cold  white  woman.  She  grew 
almost  warm.  After  supper,  when  Teddy  was  upstairs 
in  the  attic  looking  through  a  box  of  oddments  his 
aunt  had  kept  for  him,  she  talked  to  the  girl  of  Edward 
almost  with  affection  as  she  did  her  immaculate  Sunday 
crotchet  work  with  needles  as  cold  and  bony  as 
herself. 

"Edward's  very  like  his  mother,  but  more  spirited," 
she  said. 

"Is  she  alive?"  asked  the  girl  shyly. 

"No.  She  died  ten  years  ago  —  in  the  asylum.  I 
didn't  tell  Edward.  She  wore  away  all  to  nothing.  It 
was  consumption  in  the  end.  She  was  just  all  eyes  and  a 
skeleton. " 

At  parting  she  gave  the  girl  a  kiss  and  said  to  Teddy: 

"Take  care  of  her." 

To  Loo  she  said, 

"Mind  his  chest;  and  don't  let  him  worry." 

Then  she  stood  in  the  door  and  followed  the  young 
couple  down  the  street  with  rather  wistful  eyes. 

At  the  corner  they  turned,  and  she  waved  at  them. 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  Teddy  in  subdued  voice.  "Quite 
changed. " 

In  fact  the  cold  white  woman  was  dying  of  cancer.  No- 
body knew  it  but  her  doctor  and  herself,  for  she  had  the 
qualities  of  her  defects;  and  if  she  could  not  love  she 
could  at  least  endure. 


60  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

A  few  weeks  later  when  she  died  Teddy  felt  it  more 
than  he  would  have  conceived  possible. 

She  was  the  last  of  his  relations;  and  he  was  fond  of 
saying  that  he  had  no  friends  —  but  Doctor  English. 

The  doctor's  old  boys  always  brought  their  sweethearts 
to  him  to  be  approved;  and  Teddy  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule. 

The  big  man  gazed  at  the  young  couple  with  those  deep 
laughing  eyes  of  his. 

"There's  only  one  thing  I've  got  against  it,"  he  said. 
"She's  too  good  for  you,  Teddy." 

Teddy  was  always  at  his  best  with  the  doctor. 

"That's  what  they  all  say,  sir,"  he  smiled. 

"Only  me,"  interjected  Loo. 

Miss  English  held  up  a  warning  finger. 

"Hush!"  she  said;  and  they  all  laughed. 

The  doctor's  final  advice  to  Loo  was  that  she  should 
make  Teddy  wear  flannel  next  his  skin;  his  sister's  that 
she  should  induce  him  to  join  a  Friendly  Society. 

"It's  the  best  form  of  insurance  for  a  workingman," 
she  said,  practical  even  in  love  affairs.  "Are  you  going 
to  be  married  in  church?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss,"  said  Teddy,  somewhat  shocked. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  retorted  Miss  English  in  her  tart 
way.     "I  thought  you  were  all  against  the  Church." 

"Oh,   no,  Miss.     Not  for  marrying  and  burying  and 


HIS  MARRIAGE  61 

that,"  replied  Teddy.  "Must  do  it  proper  while  you're 
at  it." 

Anti-clerical  though  Teddy  posed  as  being,  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  him  not  to  be  married  by  the 
Church:  for  it  was  correct  in  his  class  and  added  a  certain 
touch  of  social  distinction;  and  Teddy  was  quite  gentleman 
enough  to  be  a  snob. 

Doctor  English  and  his  sister  attended  the  wedding. 

"A  gentle  creature,"  said  the  doctor  opening  his  um- 
brella in  the  porch,  as  the  hansom  with  the  young  couple 
in  it  swung  out  of  sight. 

"Yes.  Plenty  of  character  though,"  replied  his  sister, 
pressing  her  lips  characteristically.  "She'll  rule  that 
roost  —  when  she's  found  him  out  —  and  he'll  never  know 
it." 

The  doctor  chuckled  slyly. 

"  Like  some  one  else. " 

She  tapped  his  arm. 

"Now!"  she  said,  and  tucking  up  her  skirt  stepped  out 
into  the  wet. 


vn 

HIS  HONEYMOON 

Teddy  took  his  bride  to  Victoria  in  a  hansom. 

"Ain't  married  every  day,"  he  said.  "Splash  about  a 
bit  for  once  in  your  life. " 

Loo  sat  and  dimpled  at  his  side. 

Teddy  bubbled  over  with  the  joy  of  life. 

"All  right,  ain't  it?"  he  chirped,  taking  off  his  hat  to 
every  woman  in  a  passing  cab  who  struck  his  fancy. 

"Chuck  it,  Teddy,"  giggled  Loo.  "They'll  be  after 
you." 

"Let  'em,"  said  Teddy.  "I  love  'em  all."  His  arm 
stole  about  her,  and  his  smiling  blue  eyes  peeped  into  hers. 
"Only  I  love  you  best." 

At  Victoria  he  gave  the  bag  that  was  their  only  luggage 
to  a  porter. 

"Can't  you  carry  it  yourself  then?"  laughed  Loo. 

"Not  me,"  said  Teddy.  "I'm  on  me  'oneymoon. 
Besides,  people  in  our  stytion  of  life  must  give  employ- 
ment to  the  lower  classes.    They  look  to  us,  pore  chaps." 

He  took  their  tickets  to  Hazelhurst  in  Sussex,  the  home 
of  his  fathers. 


HIS  HONEYMOON  63 

"What  class?"  asked  the  porter. 

"First,  o'  course,"  said  Teddy.  "I'd  ha*  taken  a 
Pullman's  —  only  there  ain't  one  on  the  tryne." 

"You're  like  a  lord,  you  are,"  said  Loo. 

"Well,  I  got  the  dibs,  ain't  I,  duckie?"  he  retorted. 
"Mayn't  I  blow  'em  a  bit  on  me  bride  then?" 

He  gave  the  porter  sixpence.  The  man  touched  his  hat 
and  turned  away  with  a  covert  grin,  and  a  "Thank  you, 
sir." 

"Sir!"  whispered  Teddy.  "D'you  hear  that?  Sir! 
He  thinks  I'm  Lord  'Yzelhurst  goin'  down  to  me  country 
plyce  with  Lydy  Mybel  on  me  arm. " 

Job  Boniface  had  left  Hazelhurst  on  foot;  Ted  Hankey 
returned  by  train. 

The  young  couple  alighted  at  the  little  wayside  station 
amid  the  woods  and  fields  of  the  Sussex  Weald. 

As  the  train  rumbled  away  into  the  distance,  seem- 
ing to  carry  with  it  the  noise  and  smoke  and  stir  of 
the  great  city  from  which  it  had  emerged  an  hour 
ago,  Teddy  followed  it  almost  wistfully  as  though  it  were 
a  friend. 

He  stood  on  the  platform  alone  with  his  bride  beneath 
the  sky  and  listened  to  the  silence. 

He  was  a  strangely  different  creature  from  the  man  who 
had  plodded  out  of  Hazelhurst  thirty  years  before  with  his 


64  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

chequered  handkerchief  upon  his  back,  the  clay  upon  his 
boots,  and  Teddy  Hankey  inchoate  in  his  blood. 

The  old  carter  with  the  stiff  frill  of  beard  standing  in  the 
door  of  the  Cock  Inn  would  never  have  recognized  in  this 
pallid,  sprightly  little  fellow  who  emerged  from  the  station 
the  son  of  his  old  friend  and  mate,  Job  Boniface. 

"  Sye ! "  called  Teddy.    "  Is  this  the  wye  to  ' Yzelhurst?  " 

The  other  blinked  slow  eyes. 

"Haazelurrsd?  "  he  cawed  in  his  undulating  nasal  Sussex 
speech,  very  slow  and  sleepy. 

"' Yzelhurst !"  reiterated  the  cockney,  sharp  and  snappy. 

The  carter  shook  his  head. 

"Caa'n't  say  to  be  sure,"  he  drawled.  "I  expagt  it 
might  be. " 

He  put  his  clay  pipe  back  in  his  mouth,  lifted  his  face, 
and  puffed.  The  chap  was  some  sort  of  foreigner,  he 
reckoned. 

Teddy  turned  on  his  way. 

"Funny  talk,"  he  muttered  scornfully,  and  called  back, 
"  I  suppose  you  can't  speak  English  or  understand  it  then. " 

The  young  couple  took  the  road  that  waved  away  before 
them  across  the  wooded  Weald,  at  the  top  of  each  rise  a 
peep  of  blue  hills  rising  like  a  wall  between  them  and 
infinity. 

"They'd  be  the  Downs,"  said  Teddy  in  hushed  voice. 
"I've  heard  father  talk  o'  them  many  a  time." 


HIS  HONEYMOON  65 

So  he  tripped  in  thin  boots  down  the  road  his  wooden- 
footed  forefathers  had  slouched  along  for  centuries 
behind  miry  beasts  or  laden  carts  —  a  dapper  little  man, 
titupping  along  under  the  vast  sky,  his  narrow-brimmed 
billy-cock  thrust  on  the  back  of  his  head.  A  cigarette  was 
in  his  mouth,  and  his  head  was  high  and  alert.  It  was 
clear  that  he  was  a  little  bit  on  the  defensive  —  a  stranger 
in  a  far  land  with  a  woman  on  his  arm. 

A  sign-post  pointed  them  down  a  rambling  country 
lane.  They  walked  between  high  hedges,  the  broad  road- 
side lush  with  September  herbage.  Here  and  there  a 
timbered  farm  stood  back  from  the  roadside  amid  stacks. 
Red  and  white  beasts  grazed  in  the  fields  and  gazed.  From 
low  lying  reed  beds  came  weird  croakings;  and  once  a  swift 
brown  bird  trailed  a  long  tail  across  the  road  before  them. 

Out  of  the  green  an  embankment  lifted  its  long  un- 
natural parapet  like  a  wall  made  by  man  to  stem  the  tides 
of  Nature.  Along  the  level  top  of  it  every  now  and  then 
strings  of  horseless  carriages  glided,  smooth  and  swift, 
some  with  faces  at  the  windows,  some  tarpaulin-covered, 
some  laden  with  coal.  It  was  the  modern  man's  great 
highway,  massive,  shining,  metal-shod,  more  amazing  far 
than  any  Roman  road,  running  across  marsh  and  weald, 
spanning  rivers,  piercing  forests,  burrowing  through 
mountains  —  level  as  water,  straight  as  a  spear,  smooth 
as  ice:  the  link  of  steel  that  joins  city  to  city,  nation  to 
nation,  sea  to  sea,  and  man  to  man. 


66  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

In  the  dissipating  town  Teddy  had  never  noticed  the 
trains  and  the  wonder  of  them.  There  they  seemed 
f amiliar,  inevitable,  a  rumbling  part  of  the  rumbling  whole, 
a  cog  in  the  great  machine,  smoky,  noisy,  swift,  amid 
smoke  and  noise  and  speed.  Here,  in  the  silence  under  the 
huge  heaven,  amid  birds  and  woods  and  the  slow  elemen- 
tal life  that  had  been  from  the  Beginning,  this  busy  white- 
maned  monster  that  man  had  recently  created  after  seons 
of  struggle,  failure,  and  tears,  to  take  the  place  of  the  old- 
fashioned  horse,  struck  him  strangely. 

He  stopped  and  stared  open-mouthed  like  a  child,  his 
hand  on  Loo's  arm. 

It  was  almost  as  though  he  were  afraid. 

A  great  hush  had  fallen  on  the  hearts  of  both.  Wall- 
bound  from  birth,  for  the  first  time  perhaps  a  sense  of  the 
immensity  of  all  things  and  their  own  most  humbling 
littleness,  the  huge  silence  and  mystery  of  Space  and 
Time,  seized  their  souls,  and  opened  their  awed  eyes  to  the 
meaning  and  miracle  of  life,  as  they  trudged  along  to- 
gether under  the  gray  sky,  two  trifling  atoms  suddenly 
insignificant  even  to  themselves  and  dumfounded  because 
of  it. 

Deeper  and  deeper  they  plunged  into  this  still  fairy- 
land of  dreams  and  mystic  cows  and  trees  that  sang. 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  a  bell  tinkled  behind  them. 

They  turned  to  find  a  motor  'bus  bearing  down  on  them. 


HIS  HONEYMOON  67 

It  was  as  though  the  Spirit  of  the  Present  had  dogged 
them  here  as  they  stepped  back  into  the  Past,  following 
them  from  the  towns,  hunting  them  down  amid  those 
wild  honeysuckled  lanes. 

Teddy  drew  up  in  the  ditch  and  watched  it  with  amaze- 
ment. 

It  looked  so  strange  here  in  the  trough  of  the  quiet  lane, 
this  familiar  tramp  of  the  London  streets  with  its  gaudy 
advertisements,  its  crowded  roof,  its  little  composed  pilot 
behind  his  wheel  guiding  its  unwieldy  bulk  as  it  glided  in 
swift  ease  along  the  way  up  which  in  the  past  groaning 
ox  teams,  sweating  pack  horses,  even  screaming  slaves, 
had  laboured  under  the  lash. 

"I  wonder  what  they'd  say  if  they  saw  that,"  mused 
Teddy,  his  eyes  on  the  conductor  of  the  vanishing  'bus, 
his  mind  in  the  past.  "  Make  some  of  'em  stare,  I'll  lay. 
Just  runs  itself  with  a  man  at  the  wheel.  No  horses,  no 
sweat,  no  nothing. " 

Where  four  roads  met  they  asked  an  old  woman  the 
way. 

She  directed  them  up  a  steep  bridle-lane  that  led  past  a 
black  barn. 

On  the  brow  they  came  to  a  timbered  cottage,  the  roof 
of  it  red  with  a  glory  of  dying  ampelopsis. 

A  comely  middle-aged  woman  in  a  mutch  cap  was 
drawing  water  from  a  well. 


68  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Beg  pardon.  Is  this  Yewtree  Cottage?"  asked 
Teddy. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"We're  the  'Ankeys,"  said  Teddy  —  "from  London. 
This  is  my  wife. " 

The  woman  greeted  them  with  smiles. 

She  knew  nothing  of  them  save  as  a  young  couple  who 
had  written  to  her  for  rooms. 

It  was  one  of  those  shining  white  Septembers  when  the 
merry  robins  sing  all  day. 

The  pair  had  a  room  in  the  roof  that  looked  out  over  a 
tiny  lawn,  an  old  cactus  tree,  green  fields  where  cows 
munched  under  still  oaks,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  Downs 
rising  like  a  mystic  tapestry  interwoven  of  amethyst, 
purple,  blue,  and  green,  behind  the  solemn  trees. 

The  floor  of  their  room  waved  up  and  down;  a  great 
black  beam  ran  across  the  ceiling;  and  there  was  no  handle 
to  the  door,  but  a  queer  latch  with  a  piece  of  string 
attached. 

It  was  a  little  old  cottage  bowed  beneath  its  weight  of 
years  and  heavy  Sussex  slabs  and  half -tiled  to  the  roof; 
and  there  was  a  wild  back  garden  in  which  red  dahlias 
and  French  beans  ran  glorious  riot. 

The  sound  of  milking  woke  them  every  morning. 

The  young  couple  would  lie  awake  in  the  silence  of  those 
splendid  dawns,  the  sun  pouring  in  on  them,  and  listen  to 


HIS  HONEYMOON  69 

the  robins  singing  and  the  hum  of  a  thrashing  machine, 
which  Teddy  declared  to  be  the  noise  of  the  world  going 
round. 

"Only  you  can't  hear  it  in  London,  cause  o*  the  traffic 
and  that." 

"Go  on!"  said  simple  Loo,  half  uncertain  whether  to 
believe  or  not. 

"  Strite, "  said  Teddy.     "  You  ask  Mr.  Wells. " 

They  had  eggs  warm  from  the  hen;  they  picked  their 
own  plums  from  the  tree;  and  drank  milk  foaming  from  the 
cow. 

These  two  creatures  of  to-day  came  in  touch  for  the 
first  time  in  their  history  with  elemental  life.  They 
watched  slow  men  shambling  about  tasks  that  were  old 
before  ever  Babylon  was  built  or  Troy  dreamed  of  — 
making  the  earth  fruitful,  driving  the  cow  to  the  bull, 
fatting  the  calf,  thatching  the  stack,  breaking  the  colt, 
sticking  the  pig,  making  cider,  robbing  the  hive.  They 
peeped  into  dark  smithies  and  beheld  bare-armed  men  in 
leather  aprons  hammering  red-hot  shoes  in  roaring  fur- 
naces and  applying  them  hissing  to  the  hoofs  of  hairy 
horses;  they  beheld  the  flocks  drift  up  the  lanes  from  the 
marshes  to  winter  pasturage;  they  saw  the  reapers  gather- 
ing their  sheaves  in  sun-browned  arms  as  in  the  days  of 
Ruth.  The  huge,  deliberate  business  of  earth  and  beast 
and  tree,  directed  clumsily  by  man  to  his  own  ends  and 
advancement,  went  on  before  their  unaccustomed  eyes. 


70  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"It's  so  slow/'  said  Teddy  in  wide-eyed  awe.  "I 
suppose  it  keeps  moving. " 

In  those  days  they  said  little.  They  were  content  to 
roam  about  arm  in  arm  and  watch  and  wonder. 

Teddy  walked  with  wide  nostrils,  filling  his  chest. 
An  unimaginable  sense  of  the  majesty  and  immensity  of 
all  things  breathed  through  him.  He  felt  a  bigger,  calmer, 
stronger  man  because  of  it.  The  slow  large  life  around 
had  touched  his  soul.  He  was  less  swift,  less  flashy. 
The  bounder  in  him  was  in  the  background. 

"You  can  see  the  sky  here,"  he  said  solemnly.  "Ain't 
it  a  mighty  great  place?  I  didn't  know  there  was  so 
much  room." 

Here  there  were  neither  policemen  by  day  nor 
prostitutes  by  night.  Everything  went  much  its  own 
way.  There  was  a  kind  of  slovenly  liberty  about  it 
all  —  no  order,  no  discipline.  All  was  large,  tranquil: 
silence,  earth,  and  sky:  wide  clean  spaces,  dark- 
ness and  stars  and  strange  little  cries  issuing  from 
the   unknown. 

At  night  they  would  walk  under  the  star-shod  vault  of 
heaven,  watch  the  glow  over  the  great  coast-town  behind 
the  hills,  and  listen  to  the  ghostly  bird  that  tu-hooed  at 
them  out  of  the  dusk. 

Both  of  them  felt  the  vastness  of  it  all. 

"  It's  'uge ! "  said  Teddy  in  awed  voice.  "  Makes  ye  feel 
like  lost." 


HIS  HONEYMOON  71 

The  loving  little  woman  pressed  against  him  in  the 
darkness. 

"There!  we've  got  each  other,"  she  said.  "That's 
enough.     We  can  leave  the  rest. " 

Teddy's  arm  came  creeping  round  her;  and  he  pressed 
his  lips  on  hers  with  passion. 

Then  they  would  go  in  and  climb  quietly  to  their  room 
in  the  roof  and  lean  out  of  their  dormer  window  in  the 
darkness  and  see  a  train  roar  and  rumble  and  flash  like  a 
fiery  dragon  across  the  Weald. 

It  all  made  a  kind  of  immense  music  in  Teddy's  soul. 

He  knew  nothing  like  it  but  the  river  —  and  Doctor 
English. 

And  the  old  life,  the  life  that  he  had  never  known  except 
through  his  ancestors,  came  drifting  back  on  Teddy  out  of 
the  Past  in  strange  gleams  as  he  roamed  the  fields  they 
had  ploughed,  walked  field-paths  hardened  by  their  feet, 
strolled  through  hazel  woods  and  deep  coverts  and  dewy 
coppices  which  had  seen  his  vicarious  creation,  passed 
cottages  in  which  they  had  died,  breasted  hills  known  of 
old  by  their  tired  feet,  and  at  sunset  leaned  over  stiles 
they  had  leaned  over  and  looked  on  the  same  rise  of  ground 
crowned  with  the  same  firs  black  against  the  same  white 
West,  and  wandered  in  the  churchyard  where  they  rested 
after  their  labours. 

Often  he  paused  in  wood  or  road  and  looked  about 


73  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

him;  a  strange  awe  and  exaltation  in  his  face  —  looking, 
listening. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?"  Loo  would  ask. 

"Don't  know  I'm  sure,"  Teddy  would  answer  after  a 
pause.     "  Only  seems  like  it  all  comes  back  to  me. " 

He  could  not  explain  his  emotions  to  himself  or  to  her. 
They  were  shadows  floating  into  the  fringe  of  conscious- 
ness out  of  some  still  deep  ocean-mind  behind  the  range  of 
intellect  and  the  spoken  word. 

Mr.  Wells,  his  host,  was  amazed  to  see  how  quickly  he 
picked  up  milking. 

"You've  been  at  this  afore,  I  see,"  he  said. 

Teddy,  his  ginger  head  bowed  against  Betsy's  white 
flank,  his  fingers  busy  beneath  her,  answered  nothing, 
listening  with  closed  eyes  to  the  delicious  hiss  of  the  milk 
in  the  pail  between  his  knees. 

Of  evenings  he  often  found  himself  sitting  on  a  bench 
under  an  old  oak  outside  the  village  inn  —  a  bench  that 
the  landlord  told  him  had  been  there  four  hundred  years. 

And  one  day  glancing  down  he  saw  deep-cut  in  rude 
letters  between  his  legs  the  name 

"Ted  Boniface" 

The  perspiration  started  to  his  brow.     He  stood  up 
swiftly  as  one  guilty  of  sacrilege  and  looked  behind  him. 
"Come  on,  Loo,"  he  said,  harsh  and  husky. 


HIS  HONEYMOON  73 

As  she  took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  back  into  the 
West,  she  felt  him  trembling. 

"What  is  it,  Ted?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered;  and  it  was  not  till  next  day 
that  he  pointed  out  the  name  to  Loo. 

"Makes  ye  think,"  he  said. 

From  their  landlady  they  made  covert  inquiries  of  the 
Bonifaces,  though  with  the  wariness  that  distinguishes 
of  necessity  the  classes  who  are  circling  about  the  brink 
of  the  Abyss,  Teddy  would  not  allow  Loo  to  reveal  his 
identity. 

As  he  truly  said,  "You  never  know." 

Directed  by  their  landlady  they  paid  a  visit  to  the  cot- 
tage in  which  old  Abraham  Boniface  had  been  born. 

A  bunchy  red-faced  woman  answered  their  knock. 

"Beg  pardon,  madam,"  said  the  little  cockney.  "Was 
there  a  party  by  the  name  of  Boniface  lived  here  one 
time?" 

Yes;  there  was  one  time  o'  day,  she  believed. 

Did  she  know  anybody  of  that  name  hereabout  now? 

Oh,  yes,  surely.  There'd  be  George  Boniface  in 
Hazelhurst  Street,  and  Mary  Boniface  oop  o'  Crab-tree, 
and  many  more. 

The  young  couple  dropped  down  to  Hazelhurst  Street  in 
search  of  relations. 

George  Boniface  was  pointed  out  to  them  —  a  man 


74  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

much  of  Teddy's  age  with  a  heavy  red  moustache  and  high 
cheek-bones  working  in  a  cottage  garden  opposite  the 
church. 

The  young  people  walked  up  and  down  in  the  road 
nudging  each  other. 

"  Go  and  talk  to  him, "  urged  Loo. 

"Not  me,"  said  Teddy,  shrewd  and  serious.  "He'd 
want  to  take  somethin'  off  o'  me. " 

"Silly!"  said  the  sensible  Loo.  "Your  own  cousin  and 
all.      Go  on!" 

Teddy  shook  his  head  stubbornly. 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  near  him  —  not  to  tell  him  I'm  his  own 
blood,"  he  said.  "You  never  know  with  these  country 
chaps. " 

Loo  got  him  to  cross  the  road  at  last. 

"Say,  Mister,"  he  began  with  a  touch  of  defensive 
swagger.  "Might  your  name  be  Boniface,  if  you'll 
excuse  me. " 

The  other  raised  small  dull  eyes.  The  spirit  of  sus- 
picion passed  from  man  to  man.  The  rustic  stood  up  and 
drew  his  hand  across  his  nose.  Then  he  looked  behind 
him  and  saw  the  wife  of  a  neighbour  standing  in  her 
cottage  door  and  listening.  To  deny  his  identity  was 
cleary  impossible. 

"Aye.    I  be  George  Bonifaace." 

Teddy  swaggered  a  little  closer. 

"There  was  one  o'  your  name  where  I  come  from  — 


HIS  HONEYMOON  75 

Job  Boniface.  Came  from  these  parts,  I  believe.  'Yzel- 
hurst." 

The  two  first  cousins  stared  at  each  other.  George 
didn't  like  the  look  of  his  inquisitor.  He  spoke  funny,  and 
he  asked  questions. 

He  resumed  his  digging. 

"  Very  like, "  he  said  surlily.  "  He'd  be  my  uncle  Job  — 
farder's  brother.  I  don't  know  nothin'  of  him  at  all.  He 
left  these  parts  when  I  was  a  nipper. " 

"He  worked  up  where  I  lived,"  continued  Teddy. 
"Brewery.  Tomkinson's.  Back  o'  the  Red  Lion  Yard. 
Wantage  Street. " 

"Indeed,"  said  the  other.  "He'd  be  my  uncle.  I've 
yeard  ta-alk  of  him. "  And  then  fearing  he  had  said  too 
much  —  "Leastways  I've  yeard  farder  ta-alk  of  him.  I 
don't  know  nothing  at  all  about  him  mesalf . " 

"Ah,  "said  Teddy.    "Good-day.    My  name's  'Ankey. " 

He  rejoined  Loo  with  a  glitter  of  triumph  in  his  eyes. 

"Leary  chap,  I'll  lay,"  he  confided  to  his  bride.  "But 
he  didn't  take  nothin'  off  o'  me. " 

As  he  walked  away,  his  cousin  looked  up  from  his  dig- 
ging, and  followed  the  other's  back  down  the  road  with 
amused  eyes. 

That  chap  with  the  ginger  head  hadn't  bested  him! 

The  mystery  and  romance  soon  wore  off. 

Teddy  became  critical.     He  went  to  the  station  and 


76  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

watched  the  trains  go  Londonward.     The  platform,  the 
advertisements,  the  mild  bustle,  gave  him  comfort. 

"Seems  more  like  'ome,"  he  said  as  he  juggled  with  a 
penny-in-the-slot  machine. 

On  Sunday  the  young  couple  went  to  church  and  sat 
at  the  back  —  Teddy  in  a  spirit  of  keen  and  flippant 
criticism  looking  up  toward  the  altar  and  dim  windows  his 
forefathers  had  eyed  with  dull  awe  from  that  same  seat. 

The  front  pew  on  the  left  of  the  aisle  had  a  door. 
Teddy  pointed  it  out  to  Loo. 

"That's  it,"  he  whispered.  "Quality  at  the  top;  the 
rest  below;  and  Jesus  Christ  nowhere." 

The  tall  young  squire  and  his  rustling  wife  came  in  a 
little  late  and  took  their  places  in  the  pew  with  the  door. 

"That's  style,  that  is,"  whispered  Teddy.  "Come  in 
just  a  little  lite,  and  then  everybody  '11  see  your  noo  frock 
strite  from  Paree. " 

With  grim  eyes  he  watched  the  squire  and  his  wife  go  up 
to  the  altar,  followed  by  the  congregation  in  order  of  social 
importance. 

And  when  the  service  was  over  he  stood  in  the  porch 
and  saw  the  pair  walk  away  through  a  crowd  of  hat-touch- 
ing rustics. 

"They  think  he's  the  Almighty;  and  he  can't  chuck  'em 
so  much  as  a  good-morning, "  he  said.     "  Servile,  I  call  it. " 

He  was  the  new  man  amid  old  things  —  too  far  from 


HIS  HONEYMOON  77 

them  to  understand  their  old-world  beauty,  their  fragrance 
of  the  forgotten,  too  near  to  them  to  be  interested  rather 
than  scornful. 

That  evening  was  the  last  of  their  stay. 

In  the  dusk  the  young  pair  strolled  through  hazel-woods 
together. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  here  all  your  life,  Ted?"  asked 
Loo. 

"No,"  answered  Ted  sturdily.  "I  want  more."  He 
opened  his  arms  wide.     "Life  for  me." 


vra 

HIS  HOME 

Teddy  Hankey  returned  to  the  town  as  a  naked 
man  returns  to  his  clothes. 

As  he  walked  through  the  streets  and  felt  the  warmth  of 
the  humming  millions  about  him  once  again,  he  began  to 
whistle. 

"More  like,  Loo,"  he  said.  "Some  chance  o'  getting 
run  over  here. " 

The  couple  settled  down  at  23  Archery  Row. 

Archery  Row  is  a  broad  and  almost  trafficless  street  with 
low  drab  houses  on  either  side  of  it.  At  one  end  is  the 
Brighton  Arms  and  the  tram-line  that  serves  as  the  nerve 
connecting  the  outlying  limb  and  the  heart  and  brain  of 
the  great  town;  at  the  other  end  are  the  wharves 
and  tall  warehouses  of  Mudsey  Wall  where  all  day  long 
the  thick-massed  barges,  that  make  a  floor  far  out  into  the 
river,  open  their  wide  maws  to  the  hook  of  the  hoisting 
crane  and  deliver  up  the  sea-borne  wealth  of  earth  and 
mine  to  fill  the  belly  and  warm  the  blood  of  the  million- 
mouthed  city. 

But  if  Archery  Row  was  dull,  it  was  not  squalid.     The 

78 


HIS  HOME  79 

inhabitants  of  it  were  well  above  the  poverty-line,  the 
bulk  of  them  earning  a  fair  subsistence  without  a  margin 
for  ill-health  or  accident.  Mr.  Starkie,  the  Relieving 
Officer,  was  seldom  seen  there;  while  the  postman  was  a 
regular  visitor.  Here  and  there  a  family  took  in  a  lodger; 
but  in  the  main  there  was  one  family  to  each  house. 
Doctor  English  with  his  shilling-practice  had  many  pa- 
tients in  the  Row. 

Archery  Row  was  highly  respectable;  and  it  was 
respectable  because  the  men  who  lived  there  were  in 
regular  employment:  policemen,  Borough  servants,  guards 
and  engine  drivers  from  the  London  and  Brighton  Rail- 
way, workers  at  Mapleton's,  tin-plate  men  and  skilled 
artisans  generally.  Through  an  archway  half  down  the 
Row  an  alley  ran  to  the  Paradise  Courts  and  Pleasant 
Places,  a  festering  mass  of  hovels  swept  away  out  of  sight, 
where  herded  the  casual  workers,  the  chronics,  the  in- 
competents, the  men  who  couldn't  work,  the  men  who 
wouldn't  work,  the  unmarried  women  who  were  always 
in  trouble,  the  flower  sellers,  the  flower  makers,  the  jam 
and  biscuit  hands  from  the  great  factories  by  the  river, 
the  physically  afflicted,  the  morally  infirm,  the  mentally 
defective;  where  families  lived  in  single  rooms;  and  the 
Relieving  Officer,  the  Detective,  the  Sanitary  Inspector, 
the  Agent  for  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Children,  the  Captain  of  the  Church  Army,  the  Salvation 
Army  Lass,  the  Broker's  Man,  Miss  English,  and  all  those 


80  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

who  dabbled  for  love  or  money  in  the  lees  of  Mudsey  So- 
ciety jostled  each  other  to  prop  the  weak  or  prey  on 
them. 

The  dwellers  in  Archery  Row,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
solid  men  if  small;  the  houses  themselves  were  solid  if 
small;  and  the  rents  likewise  solid  if  small. 

The  Row  was  owned  by  a  company.  And  a  company 
has  no  heart  to  which  to  appeal,  and  shareholders  who 
mean  to  have  dividends.  So  if  you  lived  in  the  Row  you 
paid  your  rent  down  week  by  week  on  Monday  morning  — 
or  you  went.  There  was  never  any  mistake  about  that. 
The  Mudsey  Improved  Artisans'  Dwellings  Company  had 
a  reputation  to  live  up  to,  and  a  6  per  cent,  dividend  upon 
its  ordinary  shares  to  earn.  And  it  lived  up  to  its  repu- 
tation, and  earned  its  dividend. 

Teddy  was  lucky  to  get  a  house  in  the  Row,  and  he 
knew  it.  For  it  was  one  of  those  rare  London  streets, 
hidden  away  here  and  there,  where  the  houses  are  low,  and 
the  highway  broad,  and  the  sky  draws  down  to  earth  like 
the  broad  gray  bosom  of  a  sitting  hen.  Men  came  there 
mysteriously  of  evenings  to  absorb  that  sky.  It  was  all 
they  knew  of  Nature;  and  it  was  enough. 

Apart  from  the  sky  the  only  remainder  of  the  large  life 
of  the  wilderness  beating  behind  the  drab  was  a  lark  that 
hung  in  a  cage  outside  one  of  the  houses.  On  a  window- 
ledge  to  either  side  of  it  was  a  window  box.  In  each  box 
was  a  spadeful  of  brown  earth.     And  out  of  the  earth 


HIS  HOME  81 

issued  wall  flowers.  In  front  of  each  toy  garden  was  a  toy 
paling  and  a  toy  gate.  This  house  was  tenanted  by  a 
man  from  Yarmouth,  who  had  once  known  and  breathed 
the  sea. 

Those  were  the  only  gardens  in  the  Row,  the  only  flash 
of  earth,  stripped  bare  and  brown,  the  only  green,  the 
only  flowers. 

And  between  them  on  the  wall  hung  the  lark  in  prison, 
hopping  to  and  fro,  able  to  see  the  green,  but  forbidden  for 
ever  to  attain  to  it. 

And  when  after  the  long  and  desolate  winter  there  came, 
blown  across  the  waste  oceans  of  roofs  and  up  the  river,  a 
rumour  of  the  spring,  the  unforgetting  bird  brimmed 
over  in  rivulets  of  love  and  joy.  And  as  it  lifted  on  the 
wings  of  its  song,  it  dropped  always  defeated  by  its  envi- 
ronment —  only  to  aspire  once  more,  once  more  to  taste 
defeat. 

Teddy,  on  his  way  back  from  work  one  April  evening, 
struck  to  the  heart  by  the  bird's  amazing  song,  paused 
to  watch  its  unending  heavenward  efforts  and  as  unending 
failures. 

He  stopped  whistling  and  went  home  with  drooping 
head. 

"I  don't  like  to  see  that  bird  in  its  cage.  Really,  I 
don't, "  he  told  his  wife.  "  '  Tain't  right.  Sings  as  if  it 
had  a  soul. " 

"It's  a  shame,"  said  the  sympathetic  Loo.     "That's 


82  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

what  it  is.  It's  that  Mrs.  Kirby.  Says  it's  happier  there 
than  if  it  was  free. " 

Teddy  shook  his  head. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  be  in  a  cage  meself.  That's  how  I 
figure  it  out, "  he  said.  "  Shootin'  up  into  the  sky  to  bang 
your  nut  ag'in'  the  top  of  your  cage  every  time  till  you're 
bald.     There's  no  'ope  in  it. " 

She  lifted  a  smiling  face  to  his. 

"There,  you'll  never  be  in  a  cage,  old  man,"  she  cried, 
tenderly  chaffing.     "Don't  take  it  to  heart  so. " 

He  washed  the  tan  off  face  and  arms  and  hands  at  the 
sink. 

"If  he  wants  to  fly,  why  can't  they  let  him?"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"She  says  if  she  let  him  out  he'd  only  come  to  grief," 
Loo  answered. 

"He'd  learn,"  said  Teddy  stoutly.  "Let  him  fly. 
Let  him  fall.  Who's  for  a  cage?  Liberty's  life  — 
even  if  you  do  come  to  grief.  What's  the  good  of 
it  else?" 

He  dried  his  hands.  Loo  watched  his  thin  arms  and 
sloping  shoulders  with  loving  eyes. 

There  were  few  husbands  in  Archery  Row  or  in  England 
for  the  matter  of  that  like  hers  —  Loo  was  confident  of 
that. 

"That  soft  —  like  a  child,"  she  said  to  Miss  English, 
when  that  lady  called. 


HIS  HOME  83 

"He  was  always  an  affectionate  fellow,' '  replied  the 
other,  taking  in  the  room  with  shrewd,  approving  eyes. 
"Don't  spoil  him  now  in  the  early  days.  Marriages  are 
made  in  heaven  and  marred  in  the  first  six  months  on 
earth.  There's  nothing  like  a  little  discipline  before 
they're  too  old. " 

Loo  smiled. 

"He  gets  it  sometimes,  Miss,"  she  said. 

The  other  nodded  brightly. 

"That's  right,"  she  said,  and  marched  away,  plump, 
practical,  and  businesslike,  to  disappear  through  the 
archway. 

Loo  indeed  always  played  second  fiddle  to  her  husband 
—  except  when  it  was  expedient  and  necessary  for  their 
joint  peace  and  happiness  that  she  should  assert  herself. 
Then  she  pierced  the  bluff  and  bluster  of  a  child  in  which 
Teddy  liked  to  shroud  his  weakness,  and  took  command. 
On  these  occasions  Teddy  would  surrender  without  a 
struggle.  The  bubble  burst;  the  man  collapsed  —  from 
sheer  surprise.  He  ceased  to  be  the  bold  big  conqueror  he 
loved  to  act,  very  strong  and  tempersome,  and  became  the 
tearful  little  boy. 

And  when  she  had  won  him  thus  to  humble  mood,  she 
relapsed  quietly  into  the  second  place. 

Once  in  a  too  easy  moment  he  spat  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

She  handed  him  a  wet  rag. 


84  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Wipe  it  up!"  she  said  with  the  quiet  authority  that 
distinguished  her  upon  occasion. 

He  obeyed,  concealing  his  abasement  behind  shame- 
faced giggles. 

And  Loo  might  very  reasonably  object  to  her  husband 
spitting  upon  the  floor :  for  she  kept  her  house  as  bright  as 
the  brass  knocker  on  the  door. 

In  Teddy's  eyes  his  home  had  but  one  defect:  you 
stepped  down  from  the  street  into  the  entry;  and  Teddy 
didn't  like  that  descent.  He  thought  it  lowering  morally 
and  socially  as  well  as  physically. 

"Step  h'up,"  he  said,  "not  down.  That's  'ow  it 
should  be  accordin'  to  my  liking. " 

"Best  start  'umble,  Ted, "  said  the  careful  Loo.  "And 
work  up. " 

"Start  'ow  ye  like,"  said  cheerful  Teddy.  "Take  ye 
Buckinum  Palis  on  a  ninety-nine  years'  lease  —  if  you'll 
only  say  the  word. " 

The  wine  of  life  ran  rich  in  his  veins  in  those  days.  He 
was  young,  he  was  married,  he  had  a  home  of  his  own, 
steady  work,  and  quite  as  much  wages  as  was  good  for 
him;  and  best  of  all  he  was  in  love. 

Teddy  was  so  much  in  love  indeed  that  he  even  told  his 
wife  what  his  money  was,  and  though  there  were  many 
good  husbands  in  Archery  Row  there  were  few  besides 
himself  who  went  to  that  romantic  length. 

And  he  never  kept  back  more  than  a  few  shillings  — 


HIS  HOME  85 

except  with  winks  when  he  was  going  to  make  her  a 
present. 

And  if  Teddy  was  earning  good  money,  he  needed  it, 
for  he  was  not  by  nature  thrifty,  and  liked  to  flash  his 
money  round,  though  he  was  never  riotous. 

The  young  pair  spent  most  of  their  joint  savings  in 
furnishing  the  house;  but  they  did  it  on  large  capitalist 
lines.  Teddy's  principle  was  to  have  everything  a  little 
better  than  the  neighbours,  and  then  to  invite  the  neigh- 
bours in  to  see. 

There  was  a  carpet  on  the  stairs  —  carpet  at  6d. 
a  yard,  to  say  nothing  of  stair  rods.  In  their  bed- 
room was  a  brass  bedstead  with  a  wire  mattress,  and 
curtains  to  the  window;  and  in  the  parlour  a  mahogany 
bureau  that  nobody  used,  a  harmonium  that  neither 
could  play,  and  knickknacks  innumerable,  expensive 
and  vain. 

When  Doctor  and  Miss  English  came  to  visit  them, 
Teddy  threw  open  the  mahogany  bureau  and  placed  a 
half-written  letter  on  it.  Otherwise  it  was  never  used. 
For  the  same  occasion  he  bought  some  music  and  placed 
it  on  the  stand  of  the  harmonium. 

"Hullo ! "  cried  the  cheery  doctor.  " I  didn't  know  you 
were  a  musician,  Teddy. " 

Teddy  swayed  his  head  and  shoulders  bashfully. 

"Oh,  I  just  rattle  about  a  bit,  sir,"  he  said.  "You 
know. " 


86  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Let's  hear  you,"  said  Miss  English,  sitting  down 
firmly. 

Teddy  looked  more  foolish. 

"I've  'urt  me  finger,  Miss,"  he  answered. 

"Let's  see  it,"  said  the  lady,  firmer  than  ever. 

"My  wife's  lookin'  after  it,"  replied  Teddy  with  some 
dignity,  "thank  you." 

The  lady  looked  at  Loo,  who  had  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

"That's  right, "  said  Miss  English.  "And  I  hope  she's 
looking  after  you  too.  She's  got  twice  the  gumption  you 
have.  Now  I  should  sell  this  silly  harmonium"  —  she 
tapped  it  —  "and  join  a  Friendly  Society.  That's  insur- 
ance against  a  rainy  day." 

"  She's  got  Friendly  Societies  on  the  brine,  my  belief , " 
said  Teddy  surlily,  after  she  was  gone. 

Nevertheless  he  obeyed  Miss  English  —  to  show  he  bore 
her  no  grudge;  and  disobeyed  her  —  to  preserve  his  self- 
respect  and  maintain  his  independence. 

He  did  not  join  a  Friendly  Society,  but  he  sold  the 
harmonium  and  bought  a  gramophone,  which,  as  he  said 
with  considerable  acerbity,  played  itself,  so  that  she 
couldn't  make  a  row  about  that. 

Loo  was  against  the  gramophone  as  she  had  been 
against  the  harmonium;  but  she  gave  in  to  Ted,  as 
she  did  about  most  things  except  such  as  were  bad 
for  him. 


HIS  HOME  87 

The  gramophone  cost  £3,  and  more  for  records.  On 
Sundays  it  blared  and  squeaked  and  chattered  like  a 
death's  head  become  articulate.  It  jarred  Teddy  to  the 
roots  of  his  neurotic  soul;  but  he  liked  the  neighbours  to 
know  he  had  something  they  hadn't.  Then  when  a  man 
up  the  street  got  one,  Teddy  sold  his  at  a  loss  but  with 
considerable  relief  to  himself  and  Loo  and  his  neighbours. 

"One  in  the  street's  plenty,"  he  said.  "Only  I  paid 
for  mine,  and  'e  stole  'is. " 

Teddy  was  like  that.  He  loved  to  be  distinguished, 
not  quite  like  everybody  else;  just  a  little  gentlemanly  he 
called  it.  There  was  no  side  and  no  snobbery  about  Loo; 
but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  both  about  her  husband. 
Indeed  it  was  the  airs  he  gave  himself  that  first  won  Loo's 
heart  on  the  day  when  he  came  with  his  smile  and  his 
swagger  down  the  street  and  chirped  at  her  as  he  passed. 

When  the  gramophone  had  been  sold  for  15s.  Ted 
bought  a  bicycle  and  trailer  for  considerably  more  than 
that  sum. 

" 'Ow  you  do  chuck  the  pieces  about,  to  be  sure!"  cried 
Loo,  half  admiring  and  half  shocked.     "Like  a  lord." 

"Well,  I  got  'em,  ain't  I?"  said  Teddy.  "What's  the 
good  of  havin'  'em  if  you  don't  spend  'em?  Must  circu- 
late a  bit  surely.  Step  into  your  carriage.  I'll  take  you 
for  a  ride  in  the  Park  like  a  lydy. " 

In  the  trailer  Teddy  took  Loo  out  on  Saturdays  and 
Sundays.     His  aim  was  to  reach  the  country;  but  he 


88  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

never  got  farther  than  Richmond  Park.  The  strain  made 
him  sweat;  and  his  cough  got  worse. 

Also  the  seagulls  were  coming  up  the  river  now,  and  the 
days  shortening.  So  Loo  made  him  give  it  up  till  the 
summer  returned;  and  the  bike  and  trailer  were  lodged 
in  the  tiny  parlour  along  with  the  brass-mounted  bureau, 
the  birds  of  paradise,  and  the  knickknacks,  expensive, 
numerous,  and  vain. 

It  took  up  the  whole  of  the  parlour,  but  that  didn'i: 
matter;  for  they  had  no  visitors,  and  lived  the  simple  life 
in  the  kitchen  at  the  back,  Teddy  in  his  shirtsleeves  smok- 
ing cigarettes  or  reading,  and  Loo  working. 

The  young  pair,  like  most  of  their  class,  kept  themselves 
strictly  to  themselves.  In  his  heart  Teddy  indeed  thought 
himself  just  a  cut  above  his  neighbours.  And  this  was  not 
peculiar  to  Teddy :  it  was  common  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Row.  The  huggermugger  manners  of  those  who  dwelt 
on  the  edge  of  the  Abyss  through  the  archway,  where  life 
necessarily  impinged  on  life,  property  on  property,  was 
not  for  them.  Aloofness  was  their  distinguishing  charac- 
teristic, the  symbol  that  they  had  just  attained  to  that 
level  in  society  where  they  could  stand  alone.  And 
because  they  had  only  just  attained  to  it,  they  were  more 
jealous  of  their  footing,  prouder  of  their  independence, 
more  tenacious  of  the  right  to  individualize,  than  in  a 
higher  class  where  the  privilege  had  been  longer  won  and 
was  more  securely  established.     In  Archery  Row  there 


HIS  HOME  89 

was  little  give  or  take.  Each  family  stood  on  its  own  feet. 
The  line  between  them  was  clear-cut  and  definite.  They 
had  earned  the  right  to  be  proud,  and  had  not  acquired  the 
virtue  of  humility.  They  leaned  on  no  one  —  Church  or 
State. 

And  the  young  couple  were  entirely  willing  to  ignore  and 
to  be  ignored.  Isolation  only  bound  them  more  closely 
together.  Outside  there  were  five  million  souls  seething 
about  their  home,  and  mainly  unaware  of  them  within  over 
the  fire. 

Sometimes  imaginative  Teddy  thought  of  those  millions 
broad-spread  for  miles  about  him. 

Then  he  would  creep  to  the  window  and  peep  out, 
tapping  on  the  pane. 

"They're  all  there,"  he  would  whisper  with  a  chuckle. 
"Who's  afraid?" 


IX 

HIS  CHILD 

Every  morning  Teddy  Hankey  got  up  at  5 :  20.  He 
said  no  prayers;  he  preferred  to  light  Loo's  fire  and  put  her 
kettle  on  for  her. 

At  5.25  the  street  door  opened  and  he  ran  to  the  works, 
a  muffler  about  his  throat.  On  Friday  and  Saturday 
mornings  he  whistled  as  he  ran  and  greeted  acquaintances 
cheerily  by  the  light  of  street  lamps.  Then  he  had  Sun- 
day and  the  day  with  Loo  shining  ahead  of  him.  On 
Monday  it  was  different.  He  was  usually  a  little  late, 
and  aware  that  the  time-keeper  at  the  gate  of  the  works, 
who  was  his  enemy,  would  refuse  him  admittance  if  he  was 
a  second  behind,  and  he  would  lose  an  hour's  work,  and 
the  foreman  would  mark  him  down.  Therefore  he  ran 
silently,  doggedly,  seeing  no  one,  greeting  no  one;  and 
there  was  a  cloud  over  his  heart,  which  dispersed  toward 
the  middle  of  the  week. 

Teddy  lived  for  thirteen  hours  a  day  for  six  days  a  week 
in  the  stench  of  green  hides  straight  from  the  slaughter 
house,  and  the  slop  and  filth  of  dung  pits  and  the  offal 
from  the  fleshers'  knives;   the  hum  of  the  great  water 

90 


HIS  CHILD  91 

drums  in  his  ears;  and  his  eyes  and  nostrils  obsessed  by- 
huge  and  unsavoury  white  hides  drawn  by  labouring 
beam-men  out  of  the  lime-pits  to  be  piled  by  the  beams, 
stripped  by  the  unhairers,  and  scraped  by  the  fleshers. 

The  process  was  in  part  filthy;  the  hours  long;  the 
atmosphere  always  laden  and  often  foul. 

But  in  those  days  Teddy  did  not  complain,  did  not  ask 
questions.  His  wages  were  good,  and  his  own  work  at  a 
splitting-machine  of  an  inoffensive  if  wearing  character. 
Moreover,  an  unconscious  conservative,  he  thought  it  was 
the  way  of  the  world  and  accepted  it  as  he  accepted  life. 
A  keen  if  somewhat  shallow  mind,  not  as  yet  dulled  by 
labour,  he  was  still  economically  asleep.  That  great 
awakening  which  comes  sometimes  slowly,  sometimes  with 
incredible  swiftness,  to  the  workers  of  our  day  as  experi- 
ence teaches  them  how  the  monster  edifice  of  Society 
which  rests  upon  their  shoulders  bows  them  down  to  earth, 
had  not  come  to  him  as  yet.  The  great  Why  which  is 
being  asked  ever  more  loudly  by  the  workers  throughout 
the  world  had  not  begun  to  buzz  incessantly  in  Teddy 
Hankey's  ears.  He  had  never  cared  for  economics  or 
absorbed  the  simple  teaching  of  Doctor  English;  and  when 
a  Socialist  in  the  works,  a  man  who  worked  on  the  same 
machine  as  himself  in  the  splitting-shop,  began  to  sound 
him,  Teddy  told  him  cheerfully  to  shut  his  head. 

"Ah,  you'll  come  to  it,  my  boy!"  replied  the  other. 
"You'll  come  to  it.     You're  all  right  now  —  only  yourself 


92  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

and  your  wife.  Wait  till  you've  'alf-a-dozen  kids  —  and 
six  months  out  of  work  to  keep  'em  on.". 

"  Come  to  me  second  childhood.  Maybe  I  will, "  jeered 
Teddy.  "I'm  to  do  me  twelve  hours  a  day,  and  then 
share  me  wages  with  the  loafer  at  the  corner.     Not  me!" 

The  other  swaggered  away. 

"Ah,  you  go  up  to  the  West-end,  and  see  how  they  live 
there,  and  then  remember  who  they're  living  on.  And 
that's  you,  my  boy  —  and  then  come  back  and  think  it 
over  a  bit. " 

Swiney  was  the  man's  name.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
Social  Democratic  party  and  incredibly  bitter  without 
much  apparent  reason  for  it.  A  plump  young  man  with  a 
paunch,  a  low  forehead,  pouchy  cheeks,  and  a  handsome 
tawny  moustache,  on  Sundays  he  wore  a  red  tie  and  smelt 
strongly  of  cheap  scent.  There  was  something  rankly 
coarse  about  him;  and  he  had  a  trick  of  tumbling  sudden- 
ly to  sleep,  his  face  down,  on  any  couch  or  bed  he  might 
be  sitting  on.  Yet  this  man,  sensual  by  nature  to  the 
roots  of  him,  was  a  passionate  scholar,  and  mastered  him- 
self effectively  for  the  sake  of  an  ideal. 

In  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  he  endured  hardships 
worthy  of  an  ascetic  seeking  the  Kingdom  of  God.  Often 
he  would  sit  up  to  the  small  hours  after  a  hard  day's  work 
in  the  shop  reading  by  the  light  of  a  candle.  For  the  sake 
of  books  he  largely  denied  himself  beer  and  tobacco,  at 
immense  cost  to  his  carnal  frame.     In  the  whole  of  London 


HIS  CHILD  93 

there  were  few  men  with  a  better  economic  library  than 
the  leather  worker  of  Mudsey.  Marshall's  "Principles 
of  Economics,"  Webbs'  "Industrial  Democracy,"  Gib- 
bin's  "Economic  Inquiries,"  Marx  and  Mill,  Lotze  and 
Cunningham,  books  old  and  new,  price  sixpence  or  a 
guinea,  from  the  German  or  from  the  French,  were  to  be 
found  on  the  broad  deal  board  that  formed  the  bookshelf 
above  his  bed. 

And  to  have  seen  him  sitting  on  a  barrel  in  the  yard  at 
the  dinner  hour  expounding  Ricardo's  Theory  of  Rent  to  a 
rapt  company  of  his  mates  would  have  shocked  the  club- 
men at  the  West-end  of  the  town  who  dearly  cherished  the 
illusion  that  the  workers  were  illiterate. 

Swiney's  passion  was  rather  that  of  the  social  reformer 
than  the  scholar.  He  burned  to  know  that  he  might  do. 
And  what  he  believed  he  burned  to  do  was  to  give  the 
workers,  and  most  of  all  himself,  room  to  breathe,  leisure 
to  live,  the  chance  to  enjoy.  But  in  truth  hatred  of  the 
upper  class  rather  than  love  of  his  own  was  the  master 
passion  of  his  life,  although  he  did  not  know  it.  His 
method  was  destruction:  Doctor  English  his  bete  noir. 
"Socialist!"  he  would  cry  with  bitter  scorn.  "Senti- 
mentalist —  that's  what  English  is. "  He  was  then  a 
fanatic  of  a  somewhat  ignoble  kind,  and  almost  innocuous; 
because  his  fanaticism  had  its  roots  in  that  which  cannot 
abide.  He  was  in  word,  and  not  in  deed.  The  men  did 
not  like  him,  though  they  listened  to  him.  He  could  never 


94  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

have  led  them  for  long:  for  he  lacked  in  moral  power. 
And  the  energy  that  in  a  better  man  would  have  found  its 
outlet  in  action  curdled  within  him  and  uttered  itself  only 
in  poisoned  words. 

Yet  he  was  inspired  through  and  through  with  the  zeal 
of  a  missionary,  though  his  gospel  was  hardly  that  of 
Love.  In  his  pockets  he  invariably  carried  newspaper 
cuttings  in  which  members  of  the  House  of  Lords  or  the 
ruling  classes  had  disparaged  the  workers  and  spoken  of 
them  as  canaille,  riff-raff,  tag-rag-and-bob-tail,  and  the 
like.  These  he  would  read  his  mates  whenever  oppor- 
tunity offered. 

It  was  his  function  to  keep  the  flame  of  Hate  flickering 
in  the  hearts  of  the  workers.  To  that  end  he  consecrated 
his  life;  and  his  comparative  failure  was  to  him  a  source  of 
inconceivable  secret  bitterness. 

A  thoroughgoing  determinist,  he  had  for  the  Church 
the  loathing  that  Teddy  merely  feigned.  He  averred  that 
it  was  an  institution  kept  up  by  the  Plutocracy  in  the 
interests  of  Capitalism;  and  always  referred  to  a  chapel  as 
a  laudanum  shop.  He  would  express  some  respect  for 
the  Conservative  party,  and  the  fiercest  contempt  for  the 
Liberals.  All  or  nothing  was  his  motto.  Anything  was 
better  than  a  half  and  half. 

He  was  not  married,  and  held  and  preached  that  no 
self-respecting  workingman  should  marry  under  present 
conditions. 


HIS    CHILD  95 

"Ive  trouble  enough  to  keep  myself,"  he  said.  Let 
alone  a  wife  and  kids." 

Teddy  paid  little  heed  to  him.  He  was  happy  on  the 
whole;  and  the  vista  of  forty  years  of  drudgery  with  no 
daylight  at  the  end  of  it  had  not  yet  opened  to  his  eyes. 

Yet  something  Swiney  said  struck  root  in  his  mind;  and 
when  by  chance  he  found  himself  at  the  West-end  of  the 
town  he  looked  about  him  with  new  and  wondering  eyes. 

It  was  all  very  different  there  certainly:  the  calm,  the 
leisure,  the  spaciousness;  the  quiet  solemn  houses;  the 
wide  streets  with  the  peep  of  green  park  at  the  end;  the 
big  befurred  ladies,  marching  splendid  and  stately;  the 
tall  men  with  their  crisp  hair,  clean  collars,  grave  good 
eyes,  and  air  of  massive  security;  the  women  in  bonnets 
wheeling  other  women's  babies,  the  sweep  of  sky;  the 
huge  hotels  with  men  in  livery  standing  on  the  steps. 

Teddy  stared.  And  as  he  did  so  down  one  broad  still 
highway  with  an  island  of  green  floating  at  the  end  of  it,  a 
battered  cab  rolled  slowly.  The  cab  was  piled  with  lug- 
gage; and  behind  it  padded  a  lean,  brown  wolf -man,  his 
boots  in  shreds  and  clothes  in  tatters. 

It  was  raining  slightly. 

The  cab  drew  up  at  a  hotel.  Down  the  steps  came  a 
well-fed  porter,  with  the  curly  black  hair  and  sleek 
comeliness  of  the  foreigner,  and  took  the  luggage  on  his 
back.  The  wolf-man  stood  in  the  road  and  watched  him 
disappear  up  the  steps.     The  cab  trundled  away.     The 


96  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

wolf-man  was  left  standing  in  the  drizzle  with  hanging 
head,  thinking.  Then  he  padded  swiftly  across  the  road 
in  his  shredded  boots. 

"This  is  the  most  God-forsaken  country  I  ever  see," 
he  barked  hoarsely  as  he  passed. 

"Been  out  long?"  asked  Teddy. 

"Had  one  broken  week  this  last  six  months,"  the  wolf- 
man  answered.  "Tramped  four  hundred  miles  with  the 
heartache.  Then  a  man  give  me  a  bob  ticket  for  work  in 
a  Church  Army  yard.  They  put  me  navvying  with 
nothing  in  me  belly  only  pieces  —  no  good  meat.  Can't 
do  the  work!  Course  you  can't  do  it.  I  quit.  Sooner 
break  a  shop  window  than  break  me  'eart. " 

The  two  walked  a  little  way  together. 

"You  ain't  got  the  price  of  a  bed  in  a  doss-house  on 
you?  "  asked  the  wolf -man. 

Teddy  shook  his  head. 

"Stand  you  two  of  gin, "  he  said,  and  led  the  way  into  a 
public  house. 

He  was  very  quiet  that  evening  as  he  sat  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves before  the  fire  and  smoked  his  fag. 
Loo  noticed  it. 

"Got  the  'ump,  old  man?"  she  asked. 
"No, "  he  answered.     " I  was  just  a-thinking. " 
"What  was  you  thinking  of?" 
Teddy  looked  into  the  fire. 


HIS  CHILD  97 

"You  and  me  and  the  byby,"  he  said;  and  rising  knelt 
at  her  feet. 

"'Ow  are  ye,  little  mother?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

She  answered  him  with  shy  eyes. 

"Nicely  thank  you,  dad." 

He  clasped  his  hands  behind  her  head,  and  drew  down 
her  face  to  his. 

"One  above,  if  there  is  one,  bless  father  and  mother  and 
kid,  all  three, "  he  prayed. 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  paper.  In  Berlin  the  unem- 
ployed had  been  rioting  and  the  police  sabring  them. 
Teddy  read  out  extracts  with  comments. 

"Makes  ye  think  a  bit,"  he  said.  "This  afternoon  I 
met  a  chap  who'd  been  out  six  months  only  for  one  broken 
week." 

"Funny  thing  they  can't  do  nothing, "  said  Loo. 

"Boo!  they  can  do  plenty.  It's  not  can't:  it's  wonH" 
cried  Teddy,  suddenly  repeating  Swiney  word  for  word. 
"They  won't  do  nothing  lest  they  hurt  their  blooming 
selves. " 

There  followed  a  spell  of  overtime,  when  he  was  doing 
fourteen  hours  a  day. 

The  strain  soon  told  on  Teddy,  never  very  strong;  and 
Swiney  grew  on  him  astonishingly. 

He  slept  restlessly,  ate  little,  and  was  too  tired  to  talk 
when  he  came  home. 

One  night  Loo  woke  to  find  him  no  longer  at  her  side. 


98  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Then  she  saw  him  standing  at  the  window,  peering  out  into 
the  darkness.  Returning  home  dead-beat,  he  had  gone  to 
bed  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  and  now  stood  holding  back 
the  blind  and  staring  out  into  the  rainy  night. 

She  rose  and  came  to  his  side. 

His  eyes  were  open;  but  she  knew  he  was  asleep. 

"Millions  on  'em,"  he  whispered;  and  felt  the  window- 
pane  with  his  fingers. 

"Ted,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  answer. 

Tenderly  she  wrapped  her  arm  about  him. 

He  woke  with  a  start  and  began  to  struggle  and  shout. 

"Steady,  old  man!"  she  said;  and  the  quiet  strength  of 
her  entered  into  his  wire-drawn  frame. 

He  soothed  to  her  voice  and  began  to  sweat  and  shake. 

"That  you,  Loo?"  he  whispered.  "I  thought  they'd 
got  me  again.  I  did  —  so  'elp  me.  I  thought  I  was  in 
there." 

"In  where,  Ted?" 

He  panted  and  looked  at  her  with  scared  eyes. 

She  led  him  back  to  bed  and  tucked  him  up.  Then 
she  put  her  hand  upon  his  forehead. 

"Why,  your  hair's  sopping!"  she  cried. 

He  smiled  at  her,  frightened  still. 

"I  got  a  touch  of  the  'orrors,"  he  shivered. 

She  went  downstairs  and  brewed  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"It's  this  overtime,"  she  said.     "Sweating,  I  call  it. 


HIS  CHILD  99 

Mapleton  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  A  gentleman 
like  that." 

"He  don't  care  about  us, "  said  Teddy,  Swiney  speaking 
through  his  lips  once  more;  and  added  with  more  justice, 
"and  if  he  didn't  do  it,  others  would  and  he'd  be  squeezed 
out  of  the  market.  I  don't  so  much  blame  him.  It's  the 
system. " 

She  put  out  the  candle  and  crept  into  bed  beside  him. 
He  sought  her  hand.     She  snuggled  comfortably  down. 

"  You  go  to  sleep  now,  old  man, "  she  said. 

He  shut  his  eyes. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  street  outside.  He  sat  bolt 
upright  in  bed. 

"Who's  that?"  he  cried  with  thumping  heart. 

"Only  the  copper,"  said  Loo,  sleepy  and  sensible. 

Teddy's  eyes  and  mouth  were  wide. 

"My  God!"  he  gasped. 

Erect  in  bed,  he  listened  to  the  massive  footsteps  be- 
neath and  only  retreated  again  beneath  the  sheets  when 
the  last  sound  of  them  had  died  away. 

The  bad  time  passed.  There  were  no  more  boom-prices 
and  no  more  overtime.  The  anxious  look  left  Teddy's 
eyes  and  he  resumed  himself. 

On  Sundays  he  walked  abroad  with  Loo  on  his  arm;  and 
no  duke  was  ever  more  careful  of  his  duchess  carrying  his 
heir  than  Teddy  of  his  Loo. 


100  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

They  would  go  down  Mudsey  Wall  on  Sundays  and 
establish  themselves  on  the  tiny  strip  of  beach  beside  the 
river  where  they  had  done  their  courting.  The  place  had 
grown  dear  to  them  for  associations'  sake,  and  they  spoke 
of  it  fondly  as  their  shore.  Nobody  disturbed  them  there; 
for  only  seagulls  haunted  it,  and  a  few  tadpole  boys 
flashing  in  and  out  of  the  water  in  the  heat  of  summer. 

Teddy  bought  a  deck  chair  in  which  Loo  could  lie  like  a 
lady  and  watch  the  seaward-rushing  river,  wave  at  the 
waving  steamers,  and  wonder  at  the  yawning  miracle  of 
the  Tower  Bridge. 

Lying  there  in  the  hush  and  mystery  of  the  stream  that 
wound  its  shining  way  through  their  hearts  and  memories, 
they  spoke  little,  drawn  always  nearer  to  nature  and  each 
other  by  the  intimate  music  of  its  glancing  life. 

"It  don't  worry,"  mused  Teddy,  chucking  pebbles  idly 
into  the  silver-streaked  waters.  "It's  been  running  on 
just  so  all  the  time.  Don't  seem  to  get  tired  nor  nothing. 
Think  of  a  million  years  ago,  and  then  of  a  million  years 
on.  It'll  be  here  just  the  same.  And  where'll  you  and  I 
be  then,  oi' gal?" 

"We'll  be  all  right,  I'll  lay,"  said  Loo  comfortably  as 
she  worked. 

She  had  no  self-conscious  faith;  but  in  its  stead  that 
sense  at  the  heart  peculiar  to  the  good  woman  of  every 
class  and  every  creed  that  life  is  in  its  essence  sound. 

Teddy  nodded. 


HIS  CHItD  101 

"  That's  what  Doctor  English  says, "  he  mused.  "  God's 
all  right,  he  says,  or  something  —  I  forget  the  words;  it's 
out  of  a  poet.  God's  all  right  and  don't  you  worry,  he 
says. " 

When  Loo's  time  came,  she  lay  with  bright  flushed  face 
and  shining  eyes.  There  was  a  pucker  in  her  forehead, 
but  her  eyes  smiled  at  the  man  who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  all  his  courage  gone,  and  whimpered : 

"Oh,  Loo!" 

"  Cheer,  Ted, "  she  said.     " I  ain't  a-goin'  out,  no  fear. " 

The  room  was  tiny,  and  Doctor  English  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves held  the  door. 

"I  ain't  a-goin',"  said  Teddy,  stubborn  and  tearful. 

"You  or  I,  which?"  said  the  big  doctor. 

Teddy  went  downstairs  and  shivered  in  the  trailer  in  the 
parlour. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  doctor  followed  him.  Teddy 
was  amazed  at  the  other's  calm  cheerfulness. 

"Is  it  all  over?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"No,  it  hasn't  begun,"  he  said  and  went  out. 

Teddy  leapt  after  him,  fierce  and  white. 

"Say,  where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  some  chloroform." 

"What!"  cried  Teddy.     "Going  to  ampitate  her?" 

The  doctor  turned. 


102  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Come!"  he  said.  "You'd  best  go  off  to  your  work. 
You're  doing  no  good  here. " 

Teddy  obeyed. 

His  mates  nudged  each  other  and  winked. 

"It's  his  missus.     Her  first,"  said  one. 

"Wonderful  how  these  young  chaps  take  on,"  said 
another. 

"Ah,  time  was,  you  was  the  same  way  yourself." 

Swiney  came  up  and  was  sympathetic.  A  red-hot 
gospeller,  that  young  man  never  missed  a  chance. 

"It's  happened  before  and  I  dare  say  it'll  happen 
again, "  he  said  in  the  droll  philosophical  way  he  adopted 
in  his  rare  lighter  moods.  "Keep  your  'eart  up,  Ted. 
You'll  go  home  to  find  a  youngster  crowing  daddy." 

Teddy  smiled  wofully  through  his  tears. 

Doctor  English  was  putting  on  his  coat  in  the  parlour, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window. 

The  sense  that  Something  was  coming  and  that  It  was 
big  and  beautiful  was  strong  on  him. 

It  was  always  so  with  him  at  these  new  births. 

A  breathless  cockney  voice  burst  in  on  his  reverie. 

"Well,  sir!    What  is  it?" 

"All  well,"  said  the  doctor,  deep  and  dreaming.  "A 
little  girl.     Fine  child." 

A  hand  clutched  his  arm. 

"And  how's  she?" 


HIS  CHILD  103 

"Capital.  Sleeping  now.  Don't  disturb  her.  I'll 
look  round  again  later." 

Teddy  crept  upstairs. 

In  the  bedroom  there  was  a  strange  crying  that  sent  a 
thrill  through  him;  and  a  woman  was  rocking  something 
in  the  dusk. 

She  held  up  her  finger. 

Teddy  entered  softly.  Loo  was  sleeping.  He  bent 
over  her  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

The  nurse  pulled  aside  a  cloth  and  drew  back  the  blind. 

Teddy  looked  at  his  child  with  frightened  eyes,  biting 
his  nails. 

"Christ!"  he  gasped. 

Then  he  sat  down,  sweating. 

Another  soul  had  been  added  to  London's  millions. 


HIS  FATHERHOOD 

Fatherhood  changed  Teddy  considerably. 

"You  ain't  so  larky  as  you  was,  Ted/'  chaffed  Loo. 

Teddy  wagged  his  head  sturdily  and  looked  responsible. 

"I'm  a  family  man  now,"  he  said.  "Got  to  take  it 
steady." 

On  Sundays  he  was  no  longer  to  be  found  in  the  crowd 
about  a  stump,  heckling  a  parson.  Instead  he  walked 
soberly  down  Mudsey  Wall  toward  their  shore,  a  white 
burthen  in  his  arms. 

There  was  an  added  pressure  upon  him,  the  pressure 
of  the  new  generation.  He  was  being  driven  forward  at  a 
great  pace.  His  eyes  were  brighter,  his  cheeks  hollower, 
and  the  old  look  of  strain  was  oftener  on  his  face.  And 
every  now  and  then  he  coughed. 

Aunt  Eleanor,  had  she  been  alive,  would  have  told  him 
that  he  was  growing  more  like  his  mother;  and  once  or 
twice  Doctor  English  rolling  by  him  on  his  bicycle  said 
with  the  sternness  of  the  old  schoolmaster, 

"Steady,  Ted!" 

Always  a  sober  man,  Teddy  had  still  been  a  bit  of  a 

104 


HIS  FATHERHOOD  105 

rebel  in  a  light  and  frolicsome  way.  Now  he  became  law- 
abiding.  He  took  more  pains  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
the  foreman;  and  on  the  rare  occasions  when  he  met  the 
manager,  or  Mr.  Mapleton,  or  Mr.  Edward,  the  young 
guv 'nor,  he  would  touch  his  hat  to  them.  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  attempt  to  make  it  up  with  the  fat  time-keeper, 
and  was  repulsed  severely,  ending  by  calling  his  ancient 
enemy  Big  Belly  before  a  crowd. 

But  this  was  a  chance  flare-up  of  the  old  Teddy. 

"  Best  keep  in  with  them  at  the  top,"  he  said.  "  There's 
Meg." 

He  was  therefore  a  great  disappointment  to  Swiney,  who 
had  cherished  hopes  of  him  at  one  time. 

"Ted's  a  'igh  old  Tory,"  he  said  not  without  bitter- 
ness. "  God  save  the  King  and  let  the  workers  go  to  rot. 
That's  what  Ted  is." 

"There  must  be  rich,  and  there  must  be  poor,  so  long 
as  the  world  goes  round,"  replied  Teddy  somewhat  tartly. 
"That's  what  I  says.  They  can't  'elp  'emselves,  a  lot  of 
'em." 

"There  must  be  rich  and  there  must  be  poor,  so 
long  as  the  workers  are  a  pack  of  fat-'eaded  fools  — 
and  not  a  minute  longer,"  retorted  the  stout  young 
man  bitterly. 

Teddy  indeed  was  now  very  conservative.  He  had 
his  child  christened  in  church  because  it  was  the  proper 


106  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

thing  to  do,  and  he  wanted  her  to  have  every  chance. 
For  her  sake  he  even  made  up  to  the  curate,  who  met 
him  with  such  simple  friendliness  that  Teddy,  genuinely 
moved,  went  to  church  on  the  succeeding  Sunday  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  been  in  Mudsey. 

Miss  English  met  him  at  the  door  and  was  amazed. 

"  You  here,  Teddy ! "  she  beamed.     " This  is  a  surprise." 

Teddy  looked  silly,  almost  surly. 

"Yes,  Miss,"  he  said  shortly.     "Mr.  Jerrold." 

This  was  a  confession  and  a  justification.  By  it  he 
meant  to  warn  the  orthodox  lady  that  his  motive  was  not 
religious  —  it  bore  no  relation  to  God;  neither  was  it 
personal  —  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  saving  of  his 
soul.  His  visit  to  the  house  of  God  was  a  tribute  of  re- 
spect and  gratitude  to  Mr.  Jerrold,  M.  A.,  late  of  Trinity, 
Oxford,  and  now  a  curate  at  St.  Saviour's,  Mudsey.  It 
was  a  sort  of  return-call,  a  thank-you  to  a  nice  man  which 
could  not  be  said  otherwise.  Because  Mr.  Jerrold  was  a 
gentleman  and  a  sportsman  Teddy,  himself  a  gentleman 
and  a  sportsman,  stood  for  one  hour  on  Sunday  evening  in 
as  conspicuous  a  place  as  he  could  find  singing : 

"Hark!  hark!  my  soul!" 

and  praying  that  the  curate's  eye  would  fall  upon  him  and 
recognize  that  his  courtesy  had  been  returned  in  the  kind 
Teddy  imagined  a  parson  would  best  appreciate. 
It  was  a  genuine  disappointment  to  Miss  English  that 


HIS  FATHERHOOD  107 

he  never  came  again.     His  excuse  was  that  he  hadn't 
time  now  he  was  a  father. 

And  in  truth  he  was  absorbed  in  his  child.  Nothing 
was  too  good  for  Meg:  that  was  the  principle  on  which  he 
went. 

"He's  more  like  a  mother  than  a  father,"  Loo  said  to 
Miss  English.     "I  could  be  quite  jealous.     I'm  nowhere." 

The  other  nodded  in  her  firm  bright  way. 

"It's  improving  him  a  lot,"  she  said.  "But  keep  him 
in  hand.     Keep  him  in  hand.     They  all  want  it." 

Loo  smiled  at  her. 

"I  do  that,  you  may  be  sure,  Miss.  Wouldn't  do  to  let 
him  have  it  all  his  own  way." 

The  other  shook  her  head. 

" They  none  of  'em  can  stand  it,"  she  whispered.  "  Not 
the  best  of  'em,"  and  whisked  off  through  the  archway. 

In  those  happy  days  Loo  hardly  knew  which  to  be 
proudest  of   —  husband  or  child. 

And  indeed  Meg  was  a  jewel  of  a  child.  A  small  but 
beautiful  baby,  with  a  pebble-like  head,  and  round  little 
body  and  limbs,  when  she  was  born  she  had  blue  eyes  and 
a  quantity  of  dark  hair.  The  dark  hair  fell  off,  and  little 
Meg  became  almost  bald.  Teddy  was  anxious  and  went 
round  to  see  Doctor  English  about  it,  but  the  doctor  reas- 
sured him.  Teddy  had  many  such  small  worries.  For 
he  watched  the  growth  of  his  child  with  the  most  anxious 


108  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

interest;  and  the  day  she  first  smiled  at  him  was  the  great 
day  of  his  life. 

At  night  before  he  went  to  bed  he  would  bend  over 
her  cot,  and  again  before  going  out  to  work  in  the  morning. 
And  often  as  he  stole  out  on  tiptoe,  so  as  not  to  disturb  his 
child,  he  would  turn  to  find  her  smiling  at  him. 

And  the  little  cockney  would  stand  in  the  dusk  of  the 
door  and  blow  his  baby  kisses,  and  then  steal  down- 
stairs on  hushed  and  happy  toes. 

He  called  her  the  Pride  of  the  Archery,  and  on  Sunday 
mornings  would  walk  up  and  down  the  street  with  her 
among  admiring  mothers  while  Loo  got  ready  to  go  out. 

Then  they  would  all  three  go  down  Mudsey  Wall  on 
summer  days  and  establish  themselves  on  the  tiny  strip 
of  beach  beside  the  river. 

And  there  in  her  father's  arms,  as  he  sat  upon  the  stone- 
way,  her  eyes  on  the  water,  broad  sweeping  by  in  rhythm 
of  swift  majestic  motion,  the  child  would  quicken  to  a 
strange  and  lovely  life.  She  would  chuckle  and  bubble 
and  dance  and  stretch  out  fat  white  arms  to  the  elusive 
stream  as  though  to  embrace  it,  to  possess  it  for  her  baby 
self,  to  beseech  it  to  bear  her  away  on  its  shining  bosom. 

"It's  the  steamers,"  said  the  prosaic  Loo. 

"Now  'tain't,"  answered  Teddy. 

"What  is  it  then,  old  man?" 

"What  ain't  it,  ye  mean!"  answered  Teddy,  enig- 
matically. 


HIS  FATHERHOOD  109 

He  knew  himself,  but  he  could  not  utter  what  he  knew 
in  words. 

Twenty-five  years  before  he,  in  his  father's  arms,  on 
one  of  London's  bridges,  had  experienced  that  same 
strange  stir  of  emotion  which  kindled  the  new  mind  of 
his  returning  child. 

All  there  was  of  woman  in  Teddy,  and  there  was  much, 
came  out  in  his  handling  of  his  child.  He  was  almost  as 
clever  at  dressing  her  as  Loo,  and  could  rock  her  to  sleep 
when  her  mother  failed. 

Meg  was  always  good  and  happy  in  her  father's  arms, 
and  would  lie  a  white  bundle  with  a  smiling  face,  one  tiny 
fist  reaching  forth  to  tug  fiercely  at  the  red  moustache 
that  was  her  favourite  toy. 

"There  ain't  her  like  in  London,  it's  my  belief,"  Teddy 
was  fond  of  asserting. 

Then  Meg  had  to  be  vaccinated. 

Teddy  was  dead  against  it.  He  resented  the  violation 
of  the  body  of  his  child  even  to  the  extent  of  a  pin-prick. 
It  was  for  him  a  singularly  offensive  sort  of  sacrilege. 

Doctor  English  was  obdurate. 

"As  you  wish,  sir,"  said  Teddy,  pale  and  bitter;  and 
as  soon  as  the  doctor  was  gone  applied  his  mouth  to  the 
spot  and  sucked  it. 

"Leave  enough  to  do  her  no  'arm  and  please  the  doc- 


110  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

tor,"  he  remarked  as  he  spat  and  slobbered  over  a  basin. 
Then  Meg's  teeth  began  to  give  trouble  and  there  were 
bad  nights  at  No.  23. 

The  dawn  often  found  Teddy  with  the  shadows  beneath 
his  eyes;  but  he  never  complained. 

"He's  like  a  saint,"  said  Loo,  and  helped  her  baby's 
teeth  through  with  a  hairpin. 

When  the  nights  were  very  bad  he  would  sleep  in  the 
trailer  in  the  parlour.  But  as  Meg  grew,  the  trailer  went 
and  a  perambulator  was  bought  instead. 

The  man  at  the  shop  where  the  exchange  was  made 
chaffed  Teddy  and  told  him  he  was  getting  middle-aged. 

"Straight,  I  am,"  Teddy  admitted.  "I've  got  a 
young  'un." 

And  if  to  be  middle-aged  is  to  recognize  that  your  own 
life  is  no  longer  an  end  in  itself  but  only  a  means  of  serving 
the  generation  that  is  supplanting  you,  then  Teddy  was  in 
truth  middle-aged. 

He  sold  his  trailer  without  a  pang  and  bought  in  its 
stead  a  pram.  For  Meg  no  mail-cart,  or  cube  sugar-box 
on  makeshift  wheels.  She  should  have  her  pram  like  a 
lady:  a  pram  on  springs,  painted  green,  with  a  head  you 
could  put  up  when  it  rained. 

"Should  'ave  a  coronet  on  it,"  cried  Teddy.  "Then  it 
would  be  just  all  right." 

And  it  pleased  him  none  the  less  because  it  was  the  only 
one  in  the  Row. 


HIS  FATHERHOOD  111 

These  were  great  days  at  No.  23.  Work  was  constant 
at  Mapleton's.  There  was  no  overtime  and  little  short 
time.  Teddy  was  earning  good  money  and  earning  it 
steadily. 

There  was  no  stinting  at  his  home.  Loo  lived  like  a 
lady.  She  wore  a  white  blouse  even  in  the  morning  with 
a  gold  brooch  at  the  collar.  Teddy  would  not  allow  her 
to  take  in  a  lodger  —  that  was  part  of  the  man's  pride. 
And  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should.  All  her  energies 
she  devoted  to  her  home,  her  husband,  and  her  baby. 
And  it  was  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  three  she  kept 
best. 

The  long  brown  rent  book  which  plays  so  tragic  a  part 

in  the  lives  of  the  poor  had  no  terrors  for  her.     Of  its  three 

columns 

Rent     |      Received  by     |      Due 

the  first  was  fat  with  figures,  the  second  with  initials,  and 
the  third  a  noble  blank. 

On  Monday  morning  when  the  collector  of  the  Mudsey 
Improved  Artisans'  Dwellings  Company  came  round  he 
was  always  met  with  smiles  at  No.  23.  That  gentlemanly 
young  man  with  the  tendency  to  mash  was  allowed  to 
take  a  friendly  interest  in  Meg. 

"Ain't  she  coming  on?"  he'd  say. 

"Ah,  I  dare  say  you  see  it  more  than  we  do,  coming  only 
once  a  week,  Mr.  Browne,"  replied  the  proud  mother. 

Meg  indeed  bloomed  and  blossomed. 


112  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

A  little  soul  began  to  shine  and  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 
She  became  articulate  in  clear  wild  ways.  She  would 
crow  and  scream  like  a  parrot.  She  would  stretch  out 
blind  arms  to  her  daddy  and  smile  at  him  suddenly  and 
sweetly  from  the  deeps  of  blue  eyes.  There  was  meaning 
in  her  little  back  as  she  lay  slimy  with  soap  upon  her 
mother's  knee.  She  learned  to  turn  over  on  the  bed  her- 
self, and  began  to  crawl.  Her  hair  came  again  crisp  and 
curly  this  time;  and  the  roses  blew  in  her  cheeks. 

Even  Miss  English,  critical  always  through  her  pince- 
nez,  admired. 

Loo  took  no  credit  to  herself. 

"It's  her  daddy,"  she  said. 

"Has  he  joined  a  Friendly  Society  yet?"  asked  the 
lady,  who  was  nothing  if  not  dogged. 

"  No,  Miss.  Not  yet.  He  says  he  will  when  he's  thirty. 
Lots  o'  time,  he  says.  See,  he  belongs  to  the  Sick  Club 
at  the  works.  It's  less  money.  And  there's  the  share- 
out  at  Christmas." 

Miss  English  shook  her  head. 

"Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,"  she  said.  "It's  an 
old  motto  and  a  good  one." 

Teddy  used  to  hurry  home  of  evenings  in  time  to  be 
present  at  the  child's  nightly  tub. 

And  the  little  thing  would  lie  face  down  on  her  mother  s 
lap,  and  squirm  her  head  round  and  bubble  and  croon  at 


HIS  FATHERHOOD  113 

her  father  as  he  tried  the  water  in  the  foot-bath  to  see  if 
it  was  the  right  temperature. 

Meg  loved  her  bath.  She  drove  herself  to  and  fro 
through  the  water,  her  deep-creased  little  thighs  working 
strenuously. 

"Ain't  she  got  a  chest  on  her?"  Teddy  would  say,  ad- 
miring.    "Woa,  the  little  kicker !" 

And  he  would  kneel  at  the  head  of  the  bath  and  use  his 
hand  as  a  buffer  to  prevent  her  banging  her  head  against 
the  side  as  she  surged  and  swished  to  and  fro  with  round 
eyes  and  round  mouth,  rejoicing  in  her  nakedness. 

"It's  a  perfect  little  idyll,  that  home,"  said  Doctor 
English  quietly  to  his  sister  one  evening. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  somewhat  tartly.  "I  trust  it'll 
last." 

"  It'll  last,"  said  the  doctor  dreamily  from  the  deeps  of 
his  great  chair.     "It'll  last.     The  beautiful  always  lasts." 


BOOK  II 
HIS  DEATH 


PART  I 
PINCHED 

There  still  remained  an  unhappy  condition  of  men  who  endured  the 
weight,  without  sharing  the  benefits  of,  society.  —  Gibbon. 

Walls,  towers,  and  ships,  they  all 

Are  nothing  with  no  man  to  keep  the  wall.  —  Sophocles. 


XI 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

Though  it  was  eight  o'clock  of  a  Monday  morning 
Teddy  Hankey  came  trotting  back  from  the  factory; 
and  it  was  clear  that  it  was  not  because  he  had  been 
dismissed. 

There  was  a  rare  sparkle  in  his  eyes;  and  he  was  aglow 
with  some  spiritual  excitement  that  lent  colour  and  light 
to  the  whole  man. 

He  came  bustling  into  his  house  with  the  warm  busi- 
ness of  one  who  has  before  him  work  in  which  he  rejoices. 

Little  Meg,  now  just  five  years  old,  stood  in  the  kitchen, 
the  one  dim  ray  of  sunshine  that  pierced  the  house  irra- 
diating her.  Loo  knelt  behind  her  brushing  the  child's 
fair  curls  with  fond  caressing  hands. 

"Now  then,  father!"  she  chaffed.  "I  thought  you 
were  never  coming." 

"  I  ain't  late,"  cried  Teddy.  "  'Tain't  eight  yet.  There, 
it's  going  now." 

As  her  father  entered,  Meg  danced  round  and  spread 
wide  her  little  arms. 

"Daddy ! "  she  cried.     " Quick !    Quick ! " 

117 


118  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"'Ello,  lovey!"  laughed  Teddy,  bustling  upstairs,  and 
taking  off  his  coat  as  he  went.     "  'Alf  a  mo,  then." 

Something  tremendous  was  forward  at  23  Archery  Row 
this  morning. 

Baby  Meg  was  about  to  leave  home  and  take  her  first 
plunge  in  the  ocean- world  awaiting  her  outside.  And  she 
was  keen  to  go,  keen  to  wade  out  into  those  unknown 
deeps,  inexperienced  in  the  perils  and  appalling  loneliness 
of  them. 

In  a  word,  little  Meg  Hankey  was  about  to  go  to 
school. 

The  State  had  sent  for  her  to  take  her  baby  soul  and 
train  it  to  be  sensitive  before  flinging  it  aside  to  be  ground 
to  dust  in  the  workshop  of  the  hard  world;  and  her  daddy 
had  begged,  borrowed,  or  stolen  an  hour  from  the  factory 
to  take  her  to  school  himself. 

Upstairs  in  the  little  bedroom  Teddy  beautified  himself 
as  he  had  not  done  since  he  went  courting. 

He  shaved,  washed,  scented  his  sparse  red  hair,  and 
brushed  it.  Then  he  donned  his  one  white  shirt  and  a 
clean  collar.  The  thin  boots  with  the  patent-leather  toes 
and  the  leaky  soles  which  nobody  would  see,  and  the  crack 
in  the  side  which  a  close  and  unkind  observer  would  see, 
were  produced  from  beneath  the  bed.  He  took  his 
Sunday  trousers  from  under  the  mattress,  where  they  had 
been  pressing,  and  put  them  on  with  his  black  coat  and 


THE  HAPPY  FAMILY  119 

waistcoat,  and  a  fresh  new  tie  bought  with  care  on 
Saturday  for  the  occasion. 

"Daddy!"  cried  Meg  continuously  from  below.  "Are 
you  nee'ly  weady?" 

"Comin',  duckie,  comin',"  called  Teddy,  busy  with  the 
ends  of  his  moustache. 

"Doin'  a  nice  mash  in  front  of  the  glass,  old  man," 
chaffed  Loo.     "I  know  ye." 

"Must  do  the  kid  credit,"  cried  Teddy  sturdily. 
"There's  a  lot  in  first  impressions." 

He  came  paddling  softly  down  the  stairs  in  his  socks, 
his  boots  in  his  hand. 

Meg  squealed  as  she  saw  him  and  held  out  chubby  fists. 

"Sunday  daddy!"  she  cried. 

Loo  rose  from  her  knees  with  laughing  eyes. 

"Tie-pin  and  all!"  she  said.  "My  eye!  ain't  he  a 
dook?" 

"I'm  the  dandy  torf  all  right,"  said  Teddy,  polishing 
his  boots.     "Where's  her  shoes,  mother?" 

"I  cleaned  'em  myself,"  replied  Loo.  "She's  got  'em 
on." 

"You!"  scoffed  Teddy.  "Where's  the  good  o'  you? 
Look  at  that!  Call  that  cleaning  'em?  What  d'you 
do  it  with  —  toothbrush?  Here,  duckie!  Put  your 
foot  up;  and  daddy  '11  put  a  shine  on  it.  Spit  and 
polish  —  that's  the  style.  There!  that's  more  like  it, 
ain't  it?" 


no  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  stood  up  and  Loo  arranged  a  flower  in  his  button- 
hole. 

"Won't  you  knock  'em  just?"  she  chaffed.  "Oh,  my 
stars!" 

"There,  that'll  do,"  fussed  Teddy.     "Now  the  child." 

Meg  too  was  to  be  arrayed  in  her  Sunday  best  by  her 
daddy's  orders. 

He  crowned  her  golden  curls  with  a  little  white  fur  cap, 
beneath  which  her  rosy  face  and  blue  eyes  peeped  rogu- 
ishly. He  buttoned  her  up  in  her  sheepskin  coat  with 
deft  fingers,  hung  her  imitation  ermine  muff  about  her 
neck,  arranged  her  rabbit-skin  boa  around  her  throat. 

There  were  not  many  children  in  Mudsey  who  dressed 
like  that. 

Loo  stood  by  and  watched  with  tender  eyes. 

Teddy  lifted  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Now  give  mummy  a  kiss.     There! 

"  Now  we're  off  to  Louisiana, 
For  to  see  our  Susy-anna, 
Singing  Polly-wolly-doodle  all  the  way." 

He  gave  a  kick  and  a  little  skip. 

Loo  stood  in  the  door  and  watched  the  pair  prancing 
down  the  street  with  smiling  eyes,  somewhat  wistful. 

"Be  a  good  girl,  now,  Meg,"  she  cried.  "And  do  what 
teacher  tells  you." 

"She'll  be  as  good  as  gold,  won't  you,  Meg?" 

"Don't  you  get  her  excited  now,  daddy." 


THE  HAPPY  FAMILY  121 

"Not  me,"  called  Teddy.  "She'll  be  steady  as  Well- 
in'ton  at  Waterloo. " 

Meg  strutted  down  the  street  with  little  feet  that  pitter- 
pattered  beside  her  daddy's  slow  long  legs.  She  would  not 
run  to-day  —  it  was  beneath  her  dignity;  she  would  walk. 
She  would  not  even  take  her  daddy's  hand. 

"What,  want  to  walk  alone,  duckie?" 

She  nodded  mutely  up  at  him,  her  mouth  pursed  and 
proud;  and  bustled  along  very  busy  and  important  with 
a  great  fuss  of  arms  and  legs  and  shoulders,  and  a  tiny 
pucker  in  her  forehead.  Every  now  and  then  the  dignity 
faded  out  of  her  face,  the  stiffness  out  of  her  limbs,  and 
she  gurgled  up  at  her  daddy,  rolling  her  body. 

Women  standing  in  their  doors  smiled  at  her  as  she 
went  like  sunshine  down  the  street.  Some  she  cut;  for 
she  was  in  haughty  mood;  others  she  waved  to,  and  her 
whole  body  seemed  to  chuckle  laughter. 

There  was  not  a  lovelier  bit  of  life  in  South  London  that 
day;  and  the  children  of  South  London  are  its  chief  est 
beauty.  In  them  you  seem  to  see  the  sparkle  of  the  soul 
all  the  brighter  for  the  dreary  waste  in  which  it  burns  — 
a  sparkle  that  is  slowly  quenched  as  the  child  emerges 
into  the  boy  and  girl,  and  the  weight  and  shadow  of  miser- 
able circumstance  fall  upon  the  budding  life  to  stunt  and 
darken  it. 

As  they  neared  the  school  in  South  Lane  Meg's  little 


122  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

hand  sought  her  father's,  and  one  finger  went  to  her 
mouth. 

There  were  boys  and  girls  about  the  door,  crowds  of 
boys  and  girls,  most  of  them  strangers,  some  of  them  big, 
Big  —  many  of  them  in  rags,  a  few  barefoot,  none  of  them 
arrayed  as  she  was  in  her  Sunday  best. 

Her  little  heart  pattered,  but  she  held  on  bravely, 
throwing  up  her  eyes  to  her  father's  to  see  that  all  was 
well. 

"It's  all  right,  duckie,"  said  Teddy  with  quick  sym- 
pathy.    "They  won't  hurt  you." 

When  they  reached  the  school  a  teacher  stood  in  the 
door.  She  was  a  big  and  blooming  young  person,  born 
and  bred  on  a  farm  in  the  country  where  milk  and  eggs 
and  fresh  air  were  plentiful;  and  her  face  was  kind. 

"Brought  my  little  girl  along,  Miss,"  said  Teddy, 
touching  his  hat.  "Hankey  —  23  Archery.  Inspector 
called  in  the  other  day." 

The  young  woman  put  her  hand  upon  the  child's 
shoulder. 

"What's  your  name,  dear?" 

Meg  was  shy  and  looked  at  her  toes. 

"Answer  the  lydy,  lovey,"  said  her  father. 

"Margaret  —  Eleanor  —  Hankey,"  panted  the  child. 

The  young  woman  smiled  at  Teddy. 

"I  can  see  she  comes  from  a  good  home,"  she  said. 

Teddy  purred. 


THE  HAPPY  FAMILY  123 

"Well,  Miss,  it's  the  mother  makes  the  'ome.  And 
she's  got  a  good  mother.  See!  Not  as  I  won't  say  but 
we've  tried  to  bring  her  up  nice." 

"I'm  sure  you  have,"  said  the  young  woman.  "Well, 
I'll  take  her  in  to  Governess  now.  We  shall  take  good 
care  of  her." 

Teddy  wiped  his  mouth  and  kissed  the  child. 

"Go  along  with  the  lydy,  Meg,"  he  said.  "And  do 
what  she  tells  you,  lovey.' 

The  little  creature  disappeared  into  the  school,  her 
white-coated  body,  thick  and  furry  as  a  willow-bud, 
huddled  close  against  the  young  teacher's  dark  dress. 

Teddy's  eyes  were  tender  as  he  watched  her  disappear. 

His  little  Meg  was  leaving  him.  She  had  dropped  his 
hand  and  would  walk  now  by  herself  —  always  drawing 
farther  and  farther  away. 

What  was  happening  in  his  heart,  and  why  it  was  hap- 
pening, he  did  not  seek  to  fathom;  but  he  dimly  felt  that 
he  had  lost  something,  and  something  very  precious  to 
him;  that  a  new  element  was  stealing  in  upon  his  life  — 
a  foreign  element,  unknown  and  therefore  dangerous;  and 
that  things  would  never  be  again  quite  what  they  had 
been.  Somehow  the  Future  had  thrust  a  knife  into  his 
heart,  and  severed  from  him  something  that  was  dearer  to 
him  than  himself. 

As  he  trotted  home  he  met  Doctor  English. 

The  great  doctor  got  off  his  bicycle  in  some  concern. 


124  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Hullo,  Ted!  what  you  doing  out  here  this  time  in  the 
morning?     Not  out  of  work." 

"No,  sir.     Been  seem'  Meg  off  to  school  for  the  first 

time." 

His  eyes  were  shy  and  smiling. 

"Ah,"  said  the  other  quietly.  "Your  wife'll  miss  her." 
He  mounted  his  bicycle  and  rode  off,  humming  to  himself. 

Teddy  followed  with  affectionate  eyes  the  bowed  and 
burly  figure  of  the  big  man  with  the  mysterious  bloom  of 
a  mountain  upon  him.  He  knew  that  tune.  It  brought 
back  to  him  memories  of  old  days  in  the  night  school  in 
Farthing  Lane,  the  big  doctor  prancing  round  the  room, 
with  knees  uplifted,  and  face  aglow,  half-a-hundred  hooli- 
gans of  Mudsey  stamping  behind  him,  as  they  piped  on 
penny  whistles: 

John  Brown's  Body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  dust, 
But  his  soul  goes  marching  on. 


XII 
THE  SHADOW 

Teddy  returned  to  Loo  at  a  trot,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
Shutting  the  door  behind  him  with  elaborate  mystery,  he 
stole  across  to  her  upon  his  toes. 

"'/  can  see  she  come  from  a  good  'ome,'  she  says,"  he 
whispered,  tickling  the  back  of  his  wife's  neck. 

The  mother's  cheeks  were  warm  with  joy,  and  she 
breathed  deep. 

"Is  that  what  she  say?"  asked  Loo. 

"Straight.  Them  very  words.  Bible-truth.  '/  can 
see  she  come  from  a  good  yome*  she  says.  And  so  she  do, 
says  I.     Aint  it  the  mother  as  makes  the  'ome?" 

He  put  his  arms  about  his  wife  and  kissed  her. 
She  met  him  with  eyes  bright  and  tender  as  his 
own. 

"  She  should  ha'  said  —  /  can  see  she  come  of  a  good 
father,"  Loo  answered.  "That's  what  she  should  ha' 
said  really  by  rights.  Only  there  wasn't  no  need  —  seeing 
she  had  you  before  her  eyes?"  She  dwelt  on  her  delight. 
"Who  was  it  you  saw?" 

" One  of  the  teachers.   Such  a  mighty  big  young  woman. 

125 


126  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Make  three  o'  you.  Reg'lar  prize  gal.  Stuff'd  up  on 
Nestle's  milk  all  her  life,  I  should  fancy." 

"With  a  mole  on  her  cheek?"  said  Loo.  "I  know. 
That's  Miss  Harper.  They  all  like  her.  She  takes  the 
infants  under  Governess.  Meg'U  be  along  with  her. 
.     .     .    And  she  said  that,  did  she?" 

"Straight  she  did.  'I  can  see  she  come  from  a  good 
9ome,'  she  says." 

He  ran  upstairs  and  donned  his  working-clothes,  ex- 
changing confidences  and  commonplaces  with  Loo  below 
as  he  did  so. 

"Show'd  some  of  'em  up,  I  can  tell  you.  Made  'em 
look  quite  common  alongside  our  Meg." 

"They  wasn't  in  their  Sundays,  the  others,"  said  the 
just  Loo. 

"  Sundays  or  week-days  don't  make  no  difference," 
retorted  Teddy  confidently.  "It  was  her.  It  wasn't 
the  duds.  Different  as  chalk  from  cheese.  Made  some 
of  'em  stare,  I  can  tell  you." 

And  he  laughed  as  he  recalled  tiny  incidents  of  the 
adventure,  meaningless  to  an  outsider,  to  the  father  and 
mother  full  of  beautiful  significance. 

Then  he  came  bustling  downstairs  in  his  dingy  working- 
duds,  looking  different  —  older,  duller. 

The  light  had  left  his  face,  and  there  was  a  look  of  strain 
upon  it.  She  marked  how  slight  he  looked;  how  shallow 
was  his  chest;  how  thin  his  legs. 


THE  SHADOW  127 

"Good-bye,  old  gal,"  he  said.  "It's  back  to  the 
blamed  old  machine.  No  peace  for  the  worker  in  this 
world."     And  he  shuffled  off  down  the  dismal  street. 

In  the  days  of  Teddy  Hankey  a  Great  Idea,  vague  as 
yet,  was  flickering  in  the  hearts  of  millions  —  such  an 
Idea  slow-fermenting  as  had  led  to  the  rise  of  Christianity. 
But  in  this  case  the  Idea  was  not  confined  to  a  few  coun- 
tries or  a  single  continent.  It  was  world-wide.  Europe 
and  America  were  stirred  by  it;  and  the  East  was  not  un- 
touched. It  broke  in  mysterious  waves  on  the  far  shores 
of  the  Yellow  Sea,  and  the  Persian  Gulf  was  ruffled  by  it. 
In  the  West  it  was  the  old  Idea  of  Liberty  for  which  men 
and  nations  had  striven  and  died,  merging  slowly  in  the 
larger  Idea  of  Love. 

It  affected  every  class  and  every  country.  Amidst 
the  rich  it  revealed  itself  in  an  ever-growing  uneasiness  of 
conscience. 

And  in  the  hearts  of  the  workers  it  made  itself  felt  in  a 
dim  discontent  with  mean  lives  passed  in  the  shadow  of 
oppressive  circumstance,  a  heaving  of  the  multitudinous 
bosom  of  labour  throughout  the  world. 

Teddy  Hankey  down  in  Mudsey  beside  the  old  brown 
river  was  aware  of  it  unconsciously. 

Like  many  of  the  cockney  class  Teddy  was  cursed  with 
an  Imagination.     And  that  noblest  of  all  qualities,  which 


128  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

distinguishes  man  from  the  beasts,  and  makes  him  one 
with  God,  was  in  him  a  defect. 

His  temperament  was  much  like  his  hair  —  feverish 
and  wearing  thin.  Somewhat  neurotic,  had  he  been  a 
member  of  the  State-supported  classes  at  the  top,  he 
would  have  been  the  subject  of  rest  cures.  But  Teddy 
Hankey  was  not  State-supported.  He  had  to  support 
himself,  his  family,  and  help  to  bear  upon  his  shoulders 
the  immense  burthen  of  those  tens  of  thousands  who  can 
lie  in  bed  all  day  if  they  like,  and  be  fed,  nursed,  doctored, 
housed,  amused,  at  the  expense  of  the  community. 

Therefore  he  could  not  afford  the  luxury  of  a  break- 
down. Instead  he  aged  very  rapidly.  There  was  no 
gray  in  his  hair  at  thirty,  but  his  scalp  shone  through  his 
red  locks.  The  skin  about  his  forehead  was  loose;  the 
wrinkles  had  gathered  round  his  eyes;  and  those  eyes  had 
lost  their  sparkle,  and  grown  strained  and  anxious. 

A  man  of  the  same  mind  in  a  stronger  body  would  have 
read,  worked,  and  wriggled  out  of  the  ranks  of  those  who 
live  by  their  hands  into  the  ranks  of  those  who  live  by  their 
brains.  As  it  was  when  he  came  home  of  evenings  from 
the  factory,  after  his  thirteen  hours  in  the  stench  of  raw 
hides,  he  had  no  energy  to  spare  for  books  and  study. 
What  little  was  left  in  him  went  to  Meg  and  her  amuse- 
ment. 

And  when  the  child  had  gone  to  bed  he  would  sit  for 
hours  in  silence,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  stock 


THE  SHADOW  129 

inged  toes  upon  the  fender,  his  eyes  upon  the  fire,  musing. 
Loo,  stirring  about  the  kitchen,  would  watch  him  anx- 
ious as  a  mother  over  an  ailing  child. 

"What  is  it,  dad?" 

His  answer  never  varied.     It  was: 

"I  got  thinking." 

It  was  not  peculiar  to  him,  that  trouble.  It  was  com- 
mon to  the  workers  all  the  world  over. 

They  got  thinking. 

That  thing  was  coming  to  Teddy  Hankey  which  comes 
in  our  day  to  most  men  of  his  class  and  comes  increasingly. 
He  was  beginning  to  Doubt.  And  his  was  not  the  doubt 
of  the  upper  classes  at  the  West-end  of  the  town  —  the 
doubt  in  an  abstract  God,  the  doubt  that  may  be  an  intel- 
lectual luxury.  His  was  the  real,  intimate,  and  most 
terrible  doubt  of  the  man  who  loses  his  faith  in  Life  — 
here  and  now. 

It  was  the  trouble  of  all  the  workers  throughout  the 
world  —  a  sense  of  insecurity  creeping  into  their  hearts, 
shrouding  them  like  a  poisonous  mist,  blighting  them, 
hugging  them,  stifling  them,  throttling  the  joy  in  them, 
winding  about  them  python-wise,  slaying  their  bodies, 
and  undoing  their  souls. 

Where  are  we?  —  that  was  the  myriad-throated  shout 
which  rose  from  the  great  cities  throughout  the  world. 

And  the  answer  came  echoing  back  — 


130  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

You  are  in  the  air  —  one  shaky  strand  of  rope  between 
them  and  the  Abyss  over  which  they  hung. 

And  was  that  one  strand  trustworthy? 

A  man  had  but  to  walk  down  the  street  to  get  the  answer 
to  that  question.  There  on  all  sides  he  would  see  the 
bodies  of  those  who  had  fallen  —  the  strand  of  rope  some- 
times broken,  sometimes  cut;  and  he  could  hear  the  shouts 
of  men  and  women  plunging  down  into  the  Aybss. 

Those  who  had  not  fallen  dangled,  seeking  solid  earth 
with  feet  that  pawed  the  unresisting  air.  They  had 
nothing  beneath  them  to  give  them  confidence  in  them- 
selves and  each  other.  Something  had  crept  insidiously 
between  them  and  the  old  brown  mother  from  whom  they 
sprang,  to  whom  they  belonged,  and  who  belonged  to  them 
of  natural  right — something  invisible,  intangible,  yet  very 
strong  and  deadly. 

Swiney  spoke  of  it  as  Capital. 

That  slow  unveiling  of  his  economic  eyes  which  comes 
to-day  to  every  intelligent  worker,  when  the  first  flash  of 
youth  has  died  away,  and  he  begins  to  feel  the  weight  of 
the  yoke  upon  his  neck,  seeing  life  no  longer  as  a  game  but 
as  a  grim  reality,  was  coming  to  Teddy  Hankey. 

The  Future  was  opening  before  him,  a  Future  of  work, 
work,  work  —  if  he  was  among  the  lucky  ones;  endless 
labour,  always  dull,  without  recreation,  without  inter- 
misssion,  without  reward,  and  above  all  without  security. 


THE  SHADOW  131 

"Talk  about  the  dignity  of  labour,"  Swiney  was  fond 
of  saying.     "Why,  it's  brutalizing  —  that's  what  it  is." 

Endless  labour  for  forty  years  —  and  only  that  if  he 
was  among  the  lucky  ones. 

And  if  he  was  not? 

That  question  often  haunted  Teddy  now  of  nights. 

The  State  had  educated  him.  It  had  given  him  eyes 
with  which  to  see.  And  he  saw  as  his  blind  forbears  could 
not.  And  what  he  saw  was  the  Abyss.  The  State  had 
quickened  his  heart  and  made  it  sensitive  to  the  horror  of 
that  Abyss,  as  he  skirted  it  for  ever  with  impending  toe; 
and  it  had  not  given  him  the  wherewithal  to  bridge  the 
chasm  or  fill  it  up. 

It  had  opened  the  view  to  him,  and  then  forbidden  him 
to  enter  on  the  Promised  Land.  The  dreams  it  had 
aroused  in  his  mind  remained  unfulfilled.  It  had  tempted, 
but  it  had  not  satisfied.  The  window  was  wide;  but 
the  door  was  shut,  the  door  of  opportunity.  Men  stood 
at  that  window  and  saw  and  sighed.  Many  of  them  mut- 
tered. Some  of  them  rattled  the  handle  of  the  closed  door. 
The  Hope  the  State  had  roused  was  the  Mother  of  the 
Disappointment  it  seemed  unable  to  assuage  and  the 
Anxiety  it  could  not  diminish. 

"What's  the  future  'old  for  you  and  me?"  Swiney 
would  say,  as  they  bowed  their  heads  over  the  splitting- 
machine. 

"Why,  five  bob  a  week  at  seventy,"  chirped  Teddy,  who 


132  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

had  been  momentarily  cheered  of  late  by  the  passing  of 
the  belated  Pensions  Act. 

"And  who's  going  to  live  to  be  seventy  at  this  job?" 
scoffed  Swiney.  "Think  they'd  give  you  a  pension  if 
they  thought  you'd  live  to  enjoy  it?  —  not  they!  Pay 
'emselves;  pension  'emselves.  But  the  workers!  Bleed 
the  life  out  o'  you,  and  when  you're  no  more  use  to  'em, 
chuck  you.  We  aren't  men.  We're  menials  —  and 
meant  to  be.  That's  what  the  workers  are.  Any  Im- 
perialist '11  tell  you  that." 

Swiney's  hold  on  the  other's  life  had  increased  greatly 
of  late  years.  Not  seldom  the  two  attended  political 
meetings  together.  On  one  such  occasion  an  irascible 
old  gentleman  upon  a  Conservative  platform,  on  being 
heckled,  lost  his  temper  and  exploded. 

"The  curse  of  this  country,"  he  shouted,  "is  that  the 
workingmen  are  too  well  educated." 

Swiney  turned  to  Teddy. 

"Now  you've  got  it  straight,"  he  whispered.  "What 
ye  think  o' that?" 

"Why  —  fine!"  said  Teddy,  whose  language  was  apt  to 
take  its  colour  from  his  friend. 

"That's  it,  my  boy,"  said  Swiney,  bitter  triumph  in 
his  eyes.     "We're  beginning  to  know." 

And  Swiney  was  right. 

Teddy  was  beginning  to  know. 

And  what  he  was  beginning  to  know  was  that  he  was 


THE  SHADOW  133 

hanging  on  a  thread  over  the  Abyss  —  and  that  at  any 
moment  the  thread  might  be  cut  or  break. 

It  was  this  sense  of  insecurity  that  was  turning  Teddy, 
the  flippant  cockney,  into  the  haggard  man  with  the  dis- 
contented eyes  who  is  the  worker  of  to-day. 

Sometimes  he  would  rise  and  going  to  the  window  would 
listen  to  the  immense  hum  and  under-mutter  of  the  great 
city  swirling  in  league-long  flood  all  about  his  frail  skiff 
of  a  home. 

"It's  a  rum  'un,"  he  would  growl. 

"What  is,  old  man?"  Loo  would  ask. 

"This  bag  o'  tricks  they  call  a  world."  And  he  would 
pull  back  the  blind  and  peer  out  into  the  dingy  lamp-lit 
street.     "Blest  if  I  can  make  much  of  it." 

A  great  dumb  question  haunted  his  heart. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all? 

More  and  more  Teddy  came  to  see  through  the  eyes  of 
Swiney.  And  what  he  saw  was  the  parson  and  the  police- 
man as  the  two  arch-protagonists  in  the  Great  Conspiracy 
of  the  rich  against  the  poor. 

For  years  he  had  ignored  the  State,  which  had  ignored 
him.  Now  he  began  to  be  aware  of  it  —  as  something 
huge  and  dim  and  hostile;  and  the  Church  was  there  to 
sanctify  the  State  in  its  sin. 

It  was  a  favourite  saying  of  Swiney's  that  a  workingman 
had  no  country 


134  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Talk  about  our  duty  to  fight  for  our  country !"  he 
would  say.  "All  very  well  if  you've  got  a  country.  We 
ain't.  Give  us  a  country,  I  says.  Give  us  a  stake  in  it. 
You've  got  it  all  now.  Of  course  you  want  to  fight. 
You've  got  somethin'  to  lose:  give  us  somethin'.  Give  us 
a  country;  and  then  we'll  show  you  whether  we  can  fight 
too.  As  it  is  they  talk  about  our  duties  and  forget  about 
our  rights.  Ye  see  they've  snaffled  the  rights,  and  they 
want  to  pile  the  duties  on  us." 

More  than  a  streak  of  the  other's  bitterness  now  tainted 
Teddy's  heart. 

He  began  to  realize  that  he  was  not  a  free  man  walking 
the  earth  and  rejoicing  in  his  liberty;  but  a  tiny  cog  in  an 
immense  machine  without  a  heart  over  which  he  had  no 
control  and  in  the  profits  of  whose  labours  he  hardly 
shared;  and  that  if  he  ceased  to  run  easily  and  well  the 
Engineer  with  the  Grimy  Fingers  would  remove  him  from 
his  bearings  and  chuck  him  on  the  scrap-heap. 

That  sense  had  come  to  Teddy  Hankey  which  comes 
increasingly  to  millions  in  our  day  —  the  sense  that  he 
did  not  belong. 

He  felt  himself  a  foreigner  on  earth. 


xm 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

And  Teddy  had  more  than  a  little  ground  for  depres- 
sion and  anxiety. 

The  leather-trade  had  been  going  down  for  years  in 
Mudsey.  A  few  of  the  small  factories  still  kept  going 
briskly;  but  of  the  old  giant  firms  that  in  the  past  had  been 
the  mainstay  of  Mudsey's  workers  two  only  kept  their 
heads  above  water. 

Some  had  gone  under;  others  had  moved  into  the 
country. 

Mapleton's  stood  its  ground  —  always  more  insecurely. 

The  firm  was  being  squeezed  out  by  younger  firms  and 
newer  methods. 

Old  Mr.  Mapleton  was  too  conservative;  young  Mr. 
Mapleton  altogether  too  soft.  Rates  and  taxes  were 
always  rising.  The  County  Council  was  continually 
harrying  the  management  in  regard  to  the  smells  from  the 
dung-pits  in  the  yard.  Hides  were  at  6|d.  a  lb.,  and 
wages  tended  to  go  up. 

Old  Mr.  Mapleton  had  been  saying  for  some  years  past 
that  he  was  running  the  works  as  a  charity. 

135 


136  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

It  was  little  wonder  that  the  worried  look  deepened  in 
Teddy's  eyes. 

He  grew  thinner  and  his  cough  became  worse. 

Of  evenings  now  even  Meg  could  not  always  rouse  him. 

"Daddy's  changed,"  the  little  thing  complained  to  her 
mother.     "He  doesn't  jig." 

Loo  told  her  husband,  as  he  sat  staring  into  the  fire. 

"'  Daddy's  changed,'  she  says." 

"And  perhaps  daddy's  got  something  to  change  him," 
answered  Teddy. 

Something  in  his  voice  caught  her  attention.  She  bent 
over  him. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?" 

"They're  turning  off  some  of  the  hands  again." 

"Well,  they  won't  turn  you  off,"  she  cried  comfort- 
ably.    "You've  worked  there  since  you  was  a  boy." 

Teddy  shook  his  head. 

"You  never  know  from  one  day  to  the  next.  That's 
where  it  is.  I  might  be  out  any  day.  It's  the  same  all 
over  the  shop.  Boys  doing  women's  work;  and  women 
doing  men's;  and  the  men  —  emigrate!"  He  flared  bit- 
terly. "Lots  o'  room  in  England  for  aliens.  None  for 
Englishmen.  And  then  they  talk  about  your  country! 
Plucky  lot  o'  country  a  workingman's  got.  Swiney's 
right  there." 

Then  one  evening  as  he  left  the  yard  he  found  a  body  of 
his  mates  clustered  at  the  gate  talking. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  ABYSS  137 

Swiney  beckoned  to  him. 

"You'eard,Ted?" 

"What  then?" 

"Hacket's  closed  down." 

Hacket's  was  the  huge  rival  leather-works  down  the 
river. 

Teddy  felt  inclined  to  crow.  Ever  since  he  had  been 
in  the  trade,  Hacket's  and  Mapleton's  had  been  cutting 
each  other's  throats  with  furious  zeal. 

"Well,  that  won't  'urt  us,  will  it?"  he  said  with  some- 
thing of  the  old  cocky  snap  in  his  voice.  "We'll  get  all 
their  work,  won't  we?" 

"No,  ye  fat-head!"  said  Swiney.  "He  don't  see  what 
it  means,  old  Ted  don't." 

"What  does  it  mean  then?" 

The  fat  young  man  wagged  a  professional  finger. 

"Why,  it  means  just  this:  five  hundred  men  in  our  trade 
out  o'  work  ready  to  step  into  your  shoes  or  mine.  That's 
what  it  means,  old  cock."  He  strolled  off.  "That's  the 
masters'  game  —  that  is.  Surplus  Labour.  Sweat  you 
down.  'Take  what  I  offer  you  or  go.  There9 s  plenty  to  fill 
your  place  at  my  price.9  " 

The  implication  in  the  last  words  was  quite  unjust  to 
Mapleton's,  who  had  always  been  good  employers.  But 
Swiney  was  far  too  bitter  to  be  just.  In  his  eyes  a  man's 
one  unpardonable  crime  was  to  be  a  master  —  or  to  be- 
long to  the  class  from  which  masters  sprang. 


138  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Teddy  walked  home  thoughtfully  and  told  Loo. 

"If  my  'ealth  was  to  go  now,"  he  said.  "That's 
all." 

"Your  'ealth  won't  go  now,  you  old  cockchafer,"  said 
Loo,  rising  gallantly  on  the  wave  that  was  swamping 
her  husband.  "You're  all  right;  only  you  get  so  broody. 
Here,  Meg,  go  and  cheer  your  daddy  up." 

And  he  forgot  his  troubles  in  her  curls 

Thereafter  the  gates  of  the  yard  were  crowded  by  hag- 
gard men  out  of  work. 

As  Teddy  lay  in  bed  he  could  hear  them  trooping  by  in 
the  darkness.  They  were  early  birds  —  waiting  for  his 
worm.  The  thought  of  it  stung  him;  and  he  would  get 
up  long  before  he  need  because  of  it.  He  knew  the  gates 
were  not  open  till  5.30;  but  the  sense  that  those  others 
were  there,  hundreds  of  them,  waiting  to  pounce  upon  his 
place,  kept  him  on  the  stretch. 

Every  morning  and  every  evening  Teddy  and  his 
mates  shoved  through  that  hungry,  dingy,  patient  crowd. 
And  some  who  were  there  at  dawn  when  he  went  in  were 
still  there  at  dusk  when  he  went  out. 

"We're  keepin'  'em  out  —  that's  what  we're  doing," 
said  Swiney  with  the  cheerful  bitterness  peculiar  to  him. 
"We're  tramplin'  on  our  own  class,  you  and  me.  We're 
keepin'  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  their  wives  and 
children.     And  we're  doin'  it  not  because  we  want  to 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  THE  ABYSS  139 

do  it,  but  because  we  got  to.  What  d'ye  think  o'  that 
now?" 

" rum,"  muttered  Teddy. 

"Ah,"  continued  the  other.  "I've  been  in  the  Com- 
petitive War  for  sixteen  years.  And  all  that  time  I've 
been  tramplin'  on  my  own  mates  same  as  I  am  now  — 
because  I  know  if  I  didn't,  they'd  trample  on  me.  Forced 
to  it.  Couldn't  help  myself.  If  I  was  to  give  out  now, 
there's  a  hundred  men  waiting  for  my  job.  What's  it  to 
the  masters  who  does  the  work  so  long  as  somebody  does 
it?  What's  Mapleton  care  for  me?  Why,  as  much  as  I 
care  for  'im.  Love  and  religion!  Talk  that  to  the  plu- 
tocracy. I've  worked  for  'im  for  seven  year,  and  I'll  lay 
he  don't  know  me  by  sight." 

"Mapleton's  all  right,"  said  Teddy  somewhat  testily. 
"If  you  study  him,  he'll  study  you.  Leave  him  alone. 
Where's  the  cure?     That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

The  fat  young  man  began  to  wag  his  finger. 

"There's  two  ways  out  of  this  hole,  my  boy,"  he  said 
confidentially.  "  Educate  the  intellectuals  —  and  you'll 
never  do  that;  or  else  combine  yourselves." 

"Combine!"  scoffed  Teddy.  "Where's  the  sense  o* 
combinin'  against  them?  They've  Might  on  their  side: 
we've  nothing  only  Right  on  ours.  They  got  it  all.  We 
got  nothing. 

"They  got  it  all,  I  grant  you,"  retorted  Swiney.  "But 
can't  we  make  'em  drop  it?     Ain't  there  millions  and 


140  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

millions  of  us  —  all  the  world  over?  Proletarians  unite 
—  and  it's  done."  He  squared  his  shoulders.  "I  tell 
you  what.  If  workin'men  wasn't  such  —  fools,  maybe 
the  world  might  be  worth  living  in  for  the  workers." 

A  few  months  later  there  was  a  sensation  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Archery  Row,  where  sensations  were  by  no 
means  rare.  A  thing  that  happened  in  a  room  in  Para- 
dise Court,  one  of  the  alleys  through  the  archway  not  two 
hundred  yards  from  Teddy's  door,  reverberated  through 
the  Kingdom. 

It  was  talked  of  everywhere;  and  for  forty-eight  hours 
Mudsey  found  itself  famous. 

One  of  Hacket's  men  had  committed  suicide.  He  had 
hung  himself  in  his  own  room.  Pinned  on  his  breast  as 
he  dangled  with  limp  neck  and  scraping  toes  was  a  paper. 
The  paper  was  read  at  the  inquest;  and  there  was  a  fac- 
simile of  it  in  the  Daily  Mail.     It  ran  thus: 

I've  'ad  enough.  There's  no  room  for  me  in  this  world.  So  I'll  try 
another.  I'm  squeezed  out.  For  thirty  year  I  worked  at  Hacket's  and 
never  a  word.  Four  months  since  they  closed  down.  I  was  throw'd 
out  at  fifty-six.  Since  then  I've  been  looking  for  a  job.  I'm  too  old. 
The  committee  offered  me  a  job  hammering  clinkers.  My  heart's  bad. 
Couldn't  do  it.  I've  sold  up  all  my  sticks  and  got  through  the  bit  I'd 
saved.  My  soles  are  wore  away  looking  for  work  that  ain't  there  and 
my  soul's  wore  out.  If  there  is  a  job  there's  fifty  men  younger  nor  me 
and  stronger  to  jump  into  it.  And  I  can't  emigrate  at  my  age.  I  ain't 
agoin'  nigh  Starkie  not  for  to  beg.  I  know  'im.  There's  nothing  for  it 
but  the  Workhouse  alongside  of  all  sorts  for  me  and  the  wife  and  the 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  ABYSS  141 

children  what  I've  brought  up  respectable.  I  shouldn't  be  forced  to  it. 
It  isn't  right.  So  I'm  off.  Once  I'm  gone  the  Board  must  do  something 
for  my  wife  and  children  without  forcing  them  in  there  where  it's  blas- 
pheming and  filth  all  the  time.     May  God  forgive  me.     He  knows  I 

done  my  best. 

Jas.  Allen. 


The  thing  was  talked  of  everywhere  for  twenty-four 
hours;  and  not  least  at  Mapleton's.  The  men  read  the 
letter  in  their  dinner-hour  at  the  works  and  discussed  the 
case. 

One  man  had  known  the  suicide;  another's  wife  had 
been  the  first  called  in;  another  had  run  for  Miss  English 
and  her  brother.  The  victim  was  in  their  own  trade,  and 
had  been  crushed  by  circumstances  that  might  crush 
them.     Therefore  it  came  home  to  them. 

Teddy  read  and  reread  the  letter,  licking  his  lips. 

"Who's  Starkie?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Relieving  Officer,"  said  Swiney. 

"Chap  with  a  chin?" 

"That's  'im.  Struts.  Bag.  You  know."  He  mim- 
icked the  walk  of  the  Relieving  Officer. 

A  sea-green  mist  had  invaded  Teddy's  face.  Years 
ago  he  had  known  a  Relieving  Officer  —  a  man  with  a 
bag,  who  came  and  went  and  left  tears  behind  him. 

"I  know  him,"  said  Teddy. 

"Ah,  don't  you,  my  boy?"  grinned  Swiney.  "You'll 
regret  it." 

Some  of  the  men  sniggered. 


142  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Teddy  paid  no  heed.  He  was  rereading  the  letter, 
silent  and  intent. 

"Makes  you  think  a  bit,  don't  it?"  said  Swiney  flip- 
pantly.    "  What  d'ye  make  of  it?  " 

Teddy  answered  nothing;  but  he  cut  out  the  account  of 
the  inquest  in  the  Daily  Mail,  and  a  picture  relating  to  the 
matter  in  the  Mirror,  and  pinned  them  to  the  wall  of  the 
kitchen. 

Once  or  twice  Loo  found  him  standing  before  them. 

"That's  queer  stuff  you  got  up  there,  daddy,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  you  leave  that  alone,"  retorted  Teddy  shortly. 

On  the  following  Saturday,  when  she  was  cleaning  up, 
Loo  removed  them. 

Teddy  noticed  it  at  once  on  his  return  home  and 
rounded  on  her. 

"Where's  them  papers?" 

She  had  never  known  him  so  fierce,  and  for  once  quailed 
before  the  squall  of  his  wrath. 

"I  took  'em  down,  Teddy,"  she  said.  "Seem'd  such 
queer  stuff  to  have  up  there.     Melancholy  like." 

He  strode  across  to  her. 

"What  you  done  with  'em?" 

It  was  almost  as  though  he  could  have  struck  her.  She 
essayed  to  assert  herself  and  failed.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  married  life  she  went  down  before  him  in  utter  col- 
lapse. She  saw  in  his  face  something  she  had  never  seen 
there  before,  something  that  frightened  her  —  a  flash  of 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  ABYSS  143 

steel,  a  hint  of  danger  and  darkness,  she  knew  not  what  of 
cruelty  and  terror. 

Little  Meg  reflected  the  sudden  change  in  her  daddy 
by  huddling  up  against  her  mummy's  skirt  and  whimper- 
ing. 

"There!  you  made  her  cry!"  gasped  Loo. 

"What  you  done  with  'em?"  ruthlessly. 

"I  burnt 'em,  Teddy." 

She  sat  down  and  began  to  weep. 

He  stood  over  her  with  vengeful  eyes. 

"I'll  learn  you  to  burn  my  papers,"  he  muttered. 

Meg  reached  forth  a  tiny  fist  and  beat  him  in  baby  rage. 

"Bad  daddy,"  she  screamed.     "Bad!     Bad." 

Teddy  took  the  child  in  his  arms.  She  kicked  furiously 
to  be  free.     He  sat  her  down,  and  she  ran  to  her  mother. 

Muttering  still,  Teddy  sat  down  and  rewrote  the  whole 
of  the  suicide's  letter  from  memory  with  barely  a  comma 
wrong  and  pinned  it  upon  the  wall. 

Next  day  he  asked  Swiney  in  to  see  his  handiwork. 

"That's  all  right,  ain't  it?"  said  the  fat  young  man. 
"He's  coming  on,  ain't  he,  Mrs.  Hankey?" 

Loo  said  nothing. 

And  it  was  not  till  a  week  had  passed  that  Teddy  de- 
stroyed the  papers  himself,  and  coming  to  his  wife  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  asked  her  to  forgive  him. 


XIV 
TAP-TAP 

Circumstance  was  slowly  squeezing  the  joy  out  of 
Teddy's  soul;  and  he  was  changing  apace  beneath  the 
gradual  pressure  of  hostile  environment. 

Nobody  noticed  it  much  but  Loo;  and  she  noticed  it  a 
great  deal. 

Teddy  was  not  so  dainty  as  he  had  been,  not  so  nice  — 
in  his  words,  his  manners,  his  bearing  toward  her.  He 
did  not  wash  so  regularly.  Sometimes  he  went  for  days 
unshorn.  Now  he  was  shabby  where  once  he  had  been 
neat.  The  pride  was  dying  out  of  the  man.  As  often 
as  not  he  never  wore  a  collar  for  a  week,  winding  a  wrapper 
about  his  neck  instead.  Miss  English,  who  saw  all  things 
through  those  gold-rimmed  pince-nez  of  hers,  remarked  it. 

"He's  getting  very  slack,"  she  told  her  brother.  "All 
his  ends  are  showing." 

"They're  going  through  bad  times  at  Mapleton's," 
said  the  doctor.  "It's  telling  on  him.  He  was  always 
anxious-minded." 

"And  he's  telling  on  her,"  said  Miss  English,  who  was 
very  much  a  feminist,  though  dead  against  the  Suffrage. 

144 


TAP-TAP  145 

Loo  would  not  admit  to  anybody  and  least  of  all  to 
Miss  English  that  Teddy  was  deteriorating,  but  the  sense 
of  it  was  there. 

And  Meg  noticed  it  too. 

If  the  child  was  no  less  to  her  father,  her  father  was 
certainly  less  to  the  child. 

When  he  came  home  of  evenings  she  no  longer  rushed  to 
clamber  to  his  knee  and  scramble  over  him.  She  came 
when  he  called  her.  And  until  he  called  her,  she  stayed 
where  she  was  in  her  own  particular  corner  of  the  kitchen 
on  her  grubby  little  hands  and  knees,  playing  with  her 
bits  of  coloured  carboard  and  old  dolls. 

And  Teddy  marked  the  difference  and  felt  it;  but  not  so 
much  as  he  would  have  done  a  year  or  two  back. 

He  was  losing  his  edge.  Something  of  the  old  fas- 
tidiousness, the  nice  sensitiveness  that  had  distinguished 
him  during  his  early  married  years,  was  lacking  in  him 
now. 

He  was  more  ordinary,  more  like  a  common  man. 

Many  of  his  not  ignoble  abnegations,  his  little  charm- 
ing ways,  those  twists  of  speech  and  tricks  of  manner 
that  make  women  love,  he  had  abandoned  quietly  one 
by  one. 

Loo  got  less,  and  therefore  gave  less. 

Did  she  love  less? 

His  practice  of  smoking  cigarettes  was  growing  on  him 
too. 


146  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Doctor  English,  who  hated  tobacco  as  he  hated  alcohol, 
noticed  it  with  grave  disapproval. 

"Always  sucking  a  fag  nowadays,  Teddy,"  he  said  one 
day,  catching  the  other  up  in  the  street. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Teddy  with  a  kind  of  shame- 
faced brazenness.     "Seems  to  ease  me  cough  a  bit." 

The  great  doctor  rolled  slowly  on,  shaking  his  massive 
head,  and  reported  it  to  his  sister  that  evening. 

"I  hope  he's  not  going  to  pieces,"  he  said. 

"He  was  always  very  weak,"  replied  his  sister.  "His 
wife's  twice  the  man." 

Her  brother  deep  in  his  great  chair  gazed  long  and 
sombrely  into  the  fire. 

"All  he  wants  is  backing  —  now"  he  said.  "And  he 
won't  get  it." 

Throughout  his  thirty  years  of  practice  in  Mudsey  he 
had  been  compelled  to  stand  by  and  look  on  while  homes 
were  being  broken  up,  families  disintegrated,  souls  lost, 
the  treausre  of  the  nation  lavishly  spilt,  for  lack  of  support 
and  discipline  scientifically  applied  by  the  Community  to 
its  fainting  members  in  the  early  hours  of  their  necessity. 

"If  he  goes  wrong  now  it's  largely  his  own  fault,"  said 
Miss  English  firmly.  "I've  seen  him  hobnobbing  with  a 
bookie  outside  the  Brighton  Arms  again  of  late." 

Her  brother  knelt  and  stoked  the  fire. 

"And  what's  driving  him  to  hobnob  with  the  bookie?" 
he  asked. 


TAP-TAP  147 

Weakness,"  said  Miss  English. 
"Worry,  you  mean,"  retorted  her  brother. 
Miss  English  looked  determined. 

"I  shall  go  round  to-morrow  and  see  Mrs.  Hankey," 
she  said;  and  she  did. 

There  was  not  much  to  see,  but  a  good  deal  to  feel;  and 
Miss  English,  unimaginative  Englishwoman  though  she 
was,  felt  it.  Her  soul  of  a  woman  was  dimly  aware  of  the 
sufferings  of  this  other  woman,  none  the  less  touching 
because  they  were  unuttered.  Loo  was  graver,  older, 
thinner.  Her  cheeks  were  less  round  and  beginning  to  be 
lined.  She  smiled  less  and  was  distinctly  shabbier. 
Instead  of  a  white  blouse  with  a  brooch  she  wore  a  brown 
jersey,  and  her  bare  arms  were  red-elbowed  and  no  longer 
plump.  Time  had  been  at  work  on  her  too.  The  old 
softness  was  being  hammered  out  of  her  upon  the  Anvil 
of  Circumstance.  She  was  hardening.  The  gentle  Loo 
was  sterner,  less  sweet,  bracing  herself,  it  seemed,  and  put- 
ting on  her  armour  to  battle  with  adversity.  The  dimple 
had  died  out  of  her  ©heek,  and  all  that  the  dimple  meant. 
The  sweetheart  was  fading  into  the  warrior. 

The  home  too  was  changed,  yet  unchanged.  Miss 
English  missed  something  —  the  old  joy,  the  old  sense  of 
sunshine,  that  had  always  made  it  good  to  step  out  of  the 
street  into  this  house  which  was  first  and  foremost  a  Home. 
It  was  like  a  f  amiliar  summer  landscape  suddenly  plunged 


148  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

into  winter.  It  was  dull,  dull  —  the  same,  yet  not  the 
same.  A  desolate  wind  had  breathed  on  the  brightness  of 
it  and  tarnished  its  old-time  splendour.  Yet  there  was 
no  outward  difference  except  that  the  windows  were  shut, 
and  there  was  a  slightly  stuffy  smell. 

Miss  English  commented  on  it. 

"Yes,  Miss,"  said  Loo.  "It's  Teddy.  Says  it  makes 
his  cough  worse." 

"I  should  keep  them  open,"  said  Miss  English. 
"There's  nothing  like  fresh  air  for  a  cold.    How's  Meg?" 

The  lady  had  a  glimpse  of  the  old  dimpling  Loo. 

"Oh,  bonnie,  Miss." 

"And  is  her  father  as  fond  of  her  as  he  was?" 

"Well,  Miss,"  said  Loo,  evasively,  "perhaps  he  don't 
pay  hardly  so  much  attention  to  her  as  he  did.  Wouldn't, 
ye  see.  A  man.  She's  not  so  new-like  as  she  used 
to  be." 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other.  Miss  English 
had  a  way  of  perching  her  gold-rimmed  pince-nez  on  her 
nose  that  gave  her  shrewd  brown  eyes  a  cold  and  critical 
air. 

"And  how  is  Teddy?" 

The  other's  face  clouded  again. 

"It's  the  work,  Miss.  So  uncertain.  Never  know 
where  you  are  from  one  day  to  the  next.  It's  wearing 
him  down  to  nothing." 

And  Loo  told  her  of  his  worries. 


TAP-TAP  149 

"Pity  he  doesn't  go  to  church  sometimes,"  said  Miss 
English.     "Take  his  thoughts  off." 

"He'll  never  do  that,"  answered  Loo.  "He  seems  very 
bitter  like  against  the  church.  Says  it's  humbugging  the 
workingman." 

"He'd  be  better  there  than  betting  outside  public- 
houses  anyway,"  said  Miss  English  harshly. 

Loo  denied  the  charge  roundly;  but  she  knew  there  was 
some  truth  in  it. 

Indeed  that  very  night  a  man  came  round  mysteriously 
to  the  door.  Teddy  went  to  him;  and  the  two  talked  a 
while  in  stealthy  whispers  in  the  street. 

"I  wouldn't  'ave  nothing  to  do  with  that  chap,  Ted," 
said  Loo  gently  when  he  returned. 

He  blustered. 

"Mayn't  a  chap  have  his  friends  then?" 

"If  they  are  good  ones,"  Loo  answered. 

He  stared  at  her  with  lowering  eyes. 

"'Ere!  don't  you  say  a  word  against  my  friends,"  he 
muttered.     "That's  altogether  too  much." 

The  relations  between  husband  and  wife  were  chang- 
ing as  they  changed.  The  river  had  passed  out  of  their 
common  life,  and  much  with  it.  It  no  longer  ran  in  and 
out  of  the  hearts  of  both,  intertwining  them  with  silver 
links.     They  passed  no  more  Sundays  on  their  shore. 


150  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

When  Teddy  visited  the  river  now  he  visited  it  alone.  It 
drew  him  still,  this  siren  that  had  charmed  millions  to  its 
banks;  but  now  there  was  an  almost  fatal  quality  about  its 
fascination  for  him.  He  no  longer  loved  it;  he  began  to 
fear  it,  seeing  it  as  an  enemy  in  sinister  disguise,  whom  he 
could  not  resist.  Often  he  would  brood  over  its  speed- 
ing mystery  with  set  teeth,  hissing  slightly.  And  once, 
seized  by  a  sudden  passion,  he  snatched  a  pebble  at  his 
feet  and  flung  it  at  the  river  violently  as  though  to  drive 
it  out  of  his  life.  The  stone  struck  the  gliding  water  with 
a  dull  plug;  and  Teddy  turned  his  back  upon  it  and  fled 
home. 

There  a  new  element  was  making  itself  felt  —  the  ele- 
ment of  Force.  Teddy  and  Loo  were  drawing  away  from 
each  other,  unwinding  from  within  as  it  were,  to  approach 
again  from  without  —  their  Wills  for  Weapons.  The 
Ego  in  each  was  stirring  and  aware  of  the  Ego  in  the 
other.     And  the  Ego  is  the  cuckoo  in  the  nest  of  home. 

Teddy  was  now  being  tried  and  tested  to  the  core. 
The  Great  Critic  was  at  work  on  him,  the  Great  Critic 
with  the  Auger  Eye,  who  finds  us  all  out  in  the  end  — 
boring  down  into  our  deeps,  exposing  us  to  the  soul.  He 
worked  like  a  woodpecker,  tap-tapping  up  and  down  the 
tree,  finding  the  soft  places  in  the  bark,  and  plunging  his 
remorseless  beak  into  the  hearts  of  them. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 


TAP-TAP  151 

The  Woodpecker  was  at  work  on  Teddy  Hankey, 
searching  him  out,  body  and  soul. 

Beneath  the  attacks  of  that  relentless  beak  certain  old 
weaknesses  of  his  began  to  be  exposed. 

Since  he  married  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  giving  Loo 
thirty-five  shillings  a  week  regularly  for  housekeeping  and 
rent. 

One  Saturday  he  gave  her  twenty. 

She  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing,  her  lips  compressed. 

He  tried  to  brazen  it  out. 

"A  bit  short  this  week,"  he  said.     "Bad  times." 

"There's  Meg's  new  shoes,"  Loo  reminded  him;  and 
he  felt  her  resisting  him. 

"I  know,"  he  said  shortly.     "Make  it  up  next  week." 

A  few  days  later  as  she  scrubbed  her  doorstep  at  midday 
she  was  amazed  to  see  him  coming  down  the  street. 

Her  heart  shrank,  and  she  rose  from  her  knees. 

He  saw  her  and  began  to  swagger  and  whistle  rather 
recklessly. 

"You're  not  out,  Ted?"  she  asked. 

"Not  me!"  cockily.  "Took  half  a  day  off.  That's 
all.     Ain't  'ad  a  spree  since  I  was  married." 

He  was  tired  of  enduring,  weary  of  pain,  snatching  for  re- 
lief. And  simple  fellow  that  he  was  he  knew  nothing  of  that 
wise  old  monk  who  wrote  five  hundred  years  before  his  day: 

If  thou  fling  away  one  cross,  without  doubt  thou  wilt  find  another,  and 
perhaps  a  heavier. 


152  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  came  downstairs  dressed  as 
she  had  not  seen  him  for  years  —  collar,  tie,  tie-pin,  the 
billycock  with  the  narrow  brim,  the  glace  kid  boots  with 
the  patent-leather  toes,  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and  a 
cheap  cigar  between  his  lips. 

Loo  with  swift  insight  summed  him  up  at  once. 

"Going  racing,  Ted?" 

He  was  bold  and  bluffing. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "Must  make  a  little  bit  extry 
sometimes.     Get  you  a  dress  for  the  Derby." 

He  swaggered  out.  She  followed  him.  He  swung 
round  on  her  fiercely,  defiantly.  There  was  no  resistance 
in  her  face.     He  saw  it  and  collapsed. 

"Meg  and  me  will  be  glad  to  see  you  home,  Ted,"  she 
said  quietly. 

The  words,  and  her  way  of  saying  them,  touched  the 
little  cockney's  heart. 

A  moment  he  hovered  in  the  balance. 

Then  a  man  poked  his  head  round  the  corner  of  the 
street  and  whistled. 

Teddy  went  to  the  lure. 


XV 

THE  WEAK  SPOT 

He  came  home  drenched  but  not  drunk,  and  in  high 
fettle :  he  had  made  his  railway  fare  and  half  a  quid. 

"There  you  are!"  he  cried,  and  slammed  the  bit  of  gold 
on  to  the  table  with  a  swagger.  "That's  a  little  bit  of  all 
right,  ain't  it?     Who's  the  worse  for  that?" 

She  took  the  money  coldly. 

"I  hope  you  ain't  got  cold,"  she  said.     "That's  all." 

"Cold!"  he  scoffed.  "Not  me!  I  ain't  made  o' 
butter." 

Yet  next  day  he  complained  of  a  pain  in  his  side,  and 
came  back  at  night  with  red-hot  cheeks  and  burning  eyes. 

He  went  to  bed  early,  and  in  the  night  tossed  and 
groaned. 

Loo  got  up  and  lit  a  candle. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  still  resisting  him. 

"Like  a  stab  in  my  heart  each  time  I  catch  me  breath," 
he  gasped. 

There  was  no  question  of  work  in  the  morning.  His 
eyes  were  wild,  his  face  flushed  and  contorted.  It  was 
clear  that  he  was  in  a  high  fever. 

153 


154  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  Woodpecker  with  the  hard  bright  eye  and  flaming 
crest  had  found  a  weak  spot  and  was  busy  with  relentless 
beak. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

Doctor  English  came  and  pronounced  the  trouble 
pleurisy. 

"You  must  go  on  your  club,"  he  said. 

Teddy  was  too  ill  to  be  anything  but  docile. 

Loo  nursed  and  poulticed  him.  And  in  his  weakness  he 
came  back  to  her  as  a  naughty  child  comes  back  to  its 
mother.  The  defiance  and  bitterness  died  out  of  him. 
The  old  Teddy,  loving  and  beloved,  was  born  again  in 
tears  and  suffering. 

To  Loo,  as  to  many  another  good  woman,  the  days  of 
her  husband's  sickness  were  among  the  best  of  her  life. 

Safe  in  bed,  her  eye  upon  him,  he  could  not  get  into 
trouble. 

The  Spirit  of  Resistance  folded  its  wings. 

She  was  free  to  love  him  without  the  fear  that  in  loving 
him  she  was  harming  him. 

"I  know  I  ain't  been  much  of  late,  oP  gal,"  said  the 
repentant  invalid.  "It's  worry  done  it.  You  and  the 
kid  and  all." 

She  stopped  his  mouth  with  kisses. 

When  Teddy  was  better  Miss  English  came  round  and 
played  chess  with  him.     That  militant  lady  said  nothing; 


THE  WEAK  SPOT  155 

but  sitting  severe  and  solid  at  his  bedside  she  gave  him  a 
sound  beating  at  a  game  at  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to 
fancy  himself  invincible. 

He  took  the  beating  in  good  part,  and  was  quite  quick 
enough  to  understand  the  severity. 

"I  know  it's  my  own  fault,  Miss,"  he  said,  as  the  other 
folded  up  the  board.     "But  it  wasn't  the  drink." 

The  lady  showed  no  mercy. 

"It  was  worse,"  she  said. 

"I  made  a  bit,  though,"  he  cried,  twinkling  defiantly. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  replied  the  other;  and  added 
cruelly  that  his  illness  would  cost  him  far  more  than  he 
had  made. 

"Oh,  no,  Miss.  I'm  on  me  club  all  right,"  said  Teddy, 
determined  not  to  give  in. 

"What's  your  club?"  scoffed  the  remorseless  lady. 
"It's  only  a  sick  club.  If  you'd  joined  a  proper  Friendly 
Society  years  ago,  as  I  advised  you,  you'd  be  in  a  position 
to  boast  now." 

"And  perhaps  I  will,  Miss,  when  I'm  up,"  said  Teddy 
sullenly. 

"And  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will,"  replied  the  other.  "The 
doctor's  been  very  grieved  about  it  all  —  very.  He'd 
thought  you'd  put  that  sort  of  thing  behind  you  years 
ago." 

The  shaft  went  home.  The  sparkle  died  out  of  the 
little  cockney's  eyes;   the  battle   out  of   his  face.     He 


156  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

lay  back  on  his  pillows,  warm,  wistful,  somewhat 
pitiful. 

"I'm  only  a  working-chap,  Miss,"  he  muttered. 

Her  victory  won,  the  lady  relented.  She  gave  him  her 
hand. 

"Cheer  up!"  she  said.  "The  doctor  says  you're  doing 
capitally.     He'll  be  round  to  see  you  later." 

Doctor  English  came  nearly  every  day  —  some- 
times to  see  his  patient,  sometimes  to  chat  with  his 
friend. 

The  little  cockney,  pale  upon  his  pillow,  and  the  great 
brown-bearded  doctor  talked  at  length  of  the  evils  of  this 
present  time  and  notably  unemployment;  its  cause  and 
cure. 

It  was  well-known  in  Mudsey  that  Doctor  English  was 
a  Socialist;  and  therefore  it  had  caused  some  surprise  and 
many  rumours  when  to  Swiney's  bitter  indignation  he 
had  opposed  and  been  largely  instrumental  in  defeating 
the  member  of  the  S.  D.  P.  who  at  a  recent  election  had 
contested  the  constituency. 

Teddy  wanted  to  know. 

In  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  did  not  believe  in  the 
Socialism  of  Swiney,  because  he  saw  that  it  was  inspired 
by  envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness. 

In  answer  to  Teddy's  questions  Doctor  English  denned 
himself  as  a  Fabian  Collectivist. 


THE  WEAK  SPOT  157 

"This  is  my  sort  of  Socialism,"  he  said,  and  handed 
Teddy  a  pamphlet  called  "The  Charter  of  the  Poor." 

The  pamphlet  lay  on  Teddy's  bed  unread. 

A  steam-roller  was  crushing  him;  and  he  was  too  much 
occupied  with  the  slow  advancing  wheels  that  ground  the 
life  out  of  him  to  bother  himself  with  the  well-intentioned 
person  on  the  pavement  who  was  shouting  excellent  advice 
to  the  driver. 

From  his  bed  by  craning  he  could  see  the  street  and  the 
heads  of  the  men  who  trickled  up  and  down  it.  Some  of 
them  he  recognized.  He  had  seen  them  outside  the  gates 
of  the  yard.  They  were  Hacket's  men  on  the  way  to  and 
from  the  works. 

He  would  lie  awake  and  hear  them  going  by  in  the  dark 
every  morning  —  on  the  way  to  fill  his  place;  and  saw 
them  drifting  back  singly  or  in  groups  till  dusk. 

The  bright-eyed  Woodpecker  had  his  claws  in  the  little 
cockney's  side  and  was  peck-pecking. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

Doctor  English  with  his  seeing  eyes  noticed  the  look 
on  his  patient's  face  when  he  came  that  afternoon. 

"Side  still  bad?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir.     It's  easing  off  nicely  now,  thank  you." 

The  doctor  said  nothing. 

"He  doesn't  look  quite  himself  yet,"  he  said  to  Loo  in 
the  kitchen,  as  he  departed. 


158  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"No,  sir,"  said  Loo,  wide-eyed.  "It's  worry  —  about 
his  place." 

"Ah,"  said  the  other.     "I  know." 

Next  morning  he  told  his  patient  he  could  get  up. 

"It's  a  day  earlier  than  he  should,"  he  said  to  Loo 
downstairs.  "But  he  may  worry  less  if  he's  up.  It's 
a  choice  of  evils." 

Directly  he  was  gone  Teddy  called  his  wife,  and  told 
her  to  go  round  to  the  yard  and  tell  the  time-keeper  he'd 
be  back  on  Monday. 

She  protested;  and  he  snapped  at  her. 

So  she  went. 


XVI 

MR.  EDWARD 

In  Halfpenny  Alley  outside  Mapleton's  archway- 
Loo  found  a  tail  of  dingy  men  with  strained  faces.  They 
made  way  for  her,  and  she  found  herself  at  the  porter's 
box  under  the  archway. 

The  time-keeper  sat  dumped  on  a  stool  within. 

Loo  gave  her  message. 

"Edward  Hankey.  He's  been  in  bed  with  pleurisy. 
I  was  to  say  he'd  be  round  on  Monday." 

The  time-keeper,  a  heavy-breathing  brute-man,  looked 
at  the  pale  woman  out  of  his  great  gross  eyes  and  said 
nothing. 

"Will  it  be  all  right?" 

"Can't  say,"  callously.     "How  long's  he  been  away?" 

"Since  Monday  week." 

The  Ogre  blinked. 

"There's  ten  men  for  every  place,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  came  oozing  out  of  him  in  thick  drops.  "I'll  put 
his  name  down." 

"He's  worked  here  fifteen  years,"  said  Loo. 

"I  know  the  name." 

159 


160  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

She  withdrew  and  walking  up  the  yard  stood  in  the 
stench  of  the  pits,  a  forlorn  figure,  shawl-bewrapped. 

Two  beam-men,  heavily-clogged,  leather-aproned,  and 
their  legs  bound  about  with  matting,  were  lugging  a  slimy 
white  hide  across  the  sloppy  floor  from  the  lime-pit,  out 
of  which  they  had  hauled  it  to  lay  it  on  a  sopping  pile  of 
other  such  hides  beside  their  beams. 

One  of  them  recognized  her;  and,  touched  by  something 
desolate  in  the  little  woman's  appearance,  came  to  a  halt 
and  called  to  her. 

She  told  him  her  trouble. 

He  pointed  to  a  long  young  man  in  a  white  coat  picking 
his  way  between  the  pits. 

"There's  Mr.  Edward  —  the  young  guv'nor,"  he  whis- 
pered.    "Try  him.     He's  all  right." 

Mr.  Edward  was  the  master's  son,  a  young  man  of 
whom  it  was  said  in  the  works  that  he  chucked  the  swank 
a  treat  —  by  which  was  meant  that  he  was  consistently 
courteous  to  his  hands. 

Loo  went  toward  him  with  beating  heart. 

"Can  I  see  you  a  minute,  sir?" 

He  turned  his  grave,  rather  sad  young  face  upon  the 
wisp  of  white  woman  blowing  in  the  bleak  wind  before  him. 
He  was  under  thirty  and  happily  married;  but  he  was  dis- 
appointed. A  man  of  ideals,  nourished  in  the  halls  of 
College  at  Eton  and  the  quadrangles  of  Christchurch,  he 
had  wished  to  be  a  parson  and  sweat  and  suffer  amid  the 


MR.  EDWARD  161 

sweating,  suffering  millions  in  the  slums.  Then  his  father's 
failing  health  had  called  him  to  the  business.  There  he 
had  hoped  to  reconcile  in  his  own  works  at  least  the  con- 
flicting demands  of  Capital  and  Labour.  He  had  found 
between  master  and  man  an  abyss  that  could  not  be 
bridged.  The  old  spirit,  feudal  at  its  worst,  fatherly  and 
affectionate  at  its  best,  was  for  ever  dead.  Capital  and 
Labour  were  massed  together  in  opposite  camps,  and 
always  drawing  farther  off. 

"Certainly,"  he  said  to  the  woman  at  his  side. 

Loo  had  never  spoken  before  to  a  gentleman  by  birth, 
tradition,  and  education.  The  repose  of  the  man  gave 
her  a  strange  confidence. 

"It's  my  husband,  sir.  He's  had  pleurisy,  and  been 
away  a  fortnight.  He'll  be  back  on  Monday.  Wanted 
to  know  if  his  place  would  be  kept." 

"What  name?" 

"Hankey,  sir." 

"Hankey.  Oh,  I  remember  him.  Leading  hand  on  a 
splitting-machine  in  shop  3,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,  I  expect,"  said  the  young  man 
kindly.     "He's  been  with  us  for  years." 

Colour  flooded  the  woman's  face. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  she  trembled. 

After  luncheon  Mr.  Edward  strolled  into  shop  3. 


162  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"What  about  a  man  called  Hankey?"  he  asked  the 
foreman. 

"Why,  sir,  he's  a  good  man  enough,"  said  the  foreman. 
"Used  to  be  a  bit  saucy  and  that;  but  he's  steadied  down 
wonderful  since  he  married."  He  dropped  his  voice. 
"Only  thing  I  got  against  'Ankey  myself  is  that  he's  a  bit 
too  thick  in  with  the  Socialists." 

"We  must  have  'em  all  sorts,"  said  Mr.  Edward, 
a  Socialist  himself.  "He's  away  sick,  I  understand. 
Who've  you  got  in  his  place?" 

"A  temporary  hand,  sir.  He  was  a  leading  hand  at 
Hacket's." 

"Is  he  any  good?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  He's  a  better  man  than  Hankey  for  the 
work.  Hankey  don't  seem  so  good  as  he  were.  That's 
'im  —  at  the  third  machine.     Beside  Swiney." 

Mr.  Edward  saw  a  gray-haired,  thick-set  man  setting 
a  machine. 

"He's  got  five  children,  sir;  and  steady  as  Time,"  con- 
tinued the  foreman. 

"Has  Hankey  any  children?' 

"No,  sir.  Not  as  I  ever  heard  of.  An  old  soldier,  too. 
Through  the  war.    He'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Edward,  an  officer  in  the  Territorials,  sauntered 
slowly  down  the  shop  and  marked  with  appreciative  eye 
the  long  trail  of  ribands  across  the  old  soldier's  dingy 
waistcoat. 


MR.  EDWARD  163 

"Been  in  the  Army?" 

The  man  stood  up;  a  simple,  honest-eyed,  stubby- 
haired  fellow. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Those  aren't  all  South  African,"  pointing  to  the 
ribands. 

"No,  sir.  This  one's  Black  Mountain  Expedition. 
These  two  are  South  Africa." 

He  spoke  with  the  quiet,  self-respecting  deference  of  the 
man  who  has  been  used  to  dealing  with  gentlemen,  be- 
lieves in  them,  trusts  in  them,  has  measured  their  worth 
and  his  own. 

Mr.  Edward,  his  fine  feeling  for  the  nicer  shades  of 
manner  undimmed  by  his  benevolent  Socialism,  noticed 
it  approvingly. 

There  were  not  a  dozen  men  in  the  works  who  had  that 
pleasant  old-world  touch.  He  could  talk  to  this  man 
exactly  as  the  man  talked  to  him  —  neither  giving  nor 
receiving  more  than  his  just  due. 

"What  regiment?" 

"Royal  Fusiliers."^ 

Mr.  Edward  had  had  a  cousin  in  the  Royal  Fusiliers  — 
killed  at  Paardeberg. 

The  man  had  known  him,  but  had  not  been  in  his 
company. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out  of  work?" 

"Since  Hacket's  closed  down,  sir.      This  is  the  first 


164  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

reg'lar  job  like  I've  had  for  six  months.  We've  come 
down  to  two  rooms  —  the  six  of  us;  and  I've  pawned 
pretty  nigh  everything  in  them  except  the  bed.  Now  I'm 
just  beginning  to  get  my  sticks  out."  He  smiled  somewhat 
foolishly.  "Took  the  baby's  boots  out  of  pawn  yester- 
day." 

Mr.  Edward  sauntered  away. 

"I  can't  turn  that  man  off,"  he  said  moodily  to  the  fore- 
man. "Hankey  must  wait  for  the  next  vacancy.  Some- 
thing's sure  to  fall  in  soon,  I  suppose." 

"Sure  to,"  said  the  foreman  cheerily.  "It'll  only  be 
a  matter  of  a  day  or  two  at  most." 

On  the  whole  a  just  man,  he  had  a  faint  prejudice  againt 
Teddy  —  a  prejudice  so  faint  that  he  himself  was  entirely 
unaware  of  it.  Its  real  origin  lay  in  the  fact  that  Teddy 
was  red-haired  and  blue-eyed;  and  the  foreman,  a  dark 
man,  descended  from  a  long  line  of  black-haired  ancestors, 
felt  a  remote  racial  antipathy  for  a  type  that  had  been  in 
bygone  centuries  the  blood-foe  of  him  and  his. 

That  evening  Mr.  Edward  told  his  wife  the  little  tale. 

She  was  a  young  woman,  smitten  to  the  heart  by  the 
compunction  that  the  best  of  her  class  feel  for  the  suffer- 
ings of  those  on  whom  they  live. 

She  heard  her  husband  out. 

"And  what  about  Hankey?  "  she  said,  lifting  her  anxious 
eyes  to  his. 


MR.  EDWARD  165 

"He  may  have  to  wait  a  bit,  I  suppose,"  said  the  young 
man  moodily,  his  weak  and  handsome  face  clouded. 

"How  long?" 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"How  can  I  say?" 

There  was  a  touch  of  irritation  in  his  voice. 

She  persisted  quietly. 

"How  long  has  he  worked  for  you?" 

The  young  man  got  up  suddenly,  knelt  by  the  fire,  and 
poked  it  viciously. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "All  I  do  know  is  that  one 
man  has  five  children,  and  the  other  has  none." 

She  lifted  grave  eyes  to  his. 

"I  hope  it's  just,"  she  said. 


XVII 
THE  LULL 

Loo  ran  home,  happy  as  a  girl. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  called  across  the  street  to  her  neigh- 
bour, Mrs.  Baxter.     "They're  keeping  his  place  for  him." 

"Good  on  'em,"  cried  the  sympathetic  young  woman, 
nursing  her  baby,  and  crossed  to  her. 

They  paused  a  minute  to  chat. 

Some  one  tapped  sharply  at  the  window  above.  Loo 
looked  up  to  see  a  gleam  of  pale  and  anxious  face  above 
her. 

"  Come  in  then ! "  croaked  an  angry  voice.     "  Come  in.'' 

"There's  my  chap!"  she  cried,  and  darted  in.  "I'm 
comin',  Ted." 

He  was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  a  dim  ghost 
in  his  nightshirt,  awaiting  her. 

"Cant  you  come  in  and  tell  me  then?"  he  scolded 
harshly.  "Need  you  stop  clackin'  with  that  woman  in 
the  street?     Ain't  I  the  first  as  ought  to  know?  " 

"It's  all  right,  Ted,"  she  laughed.  "They're  keeping 
it  for  you." 

The  strain  on  his  heart  relaxed.     He  softened  at  once. 

166 


THE  LULL  167 

She  tucked  him  up  in  bed  again.  He  lay  red-haired  and 
haggard  amid  his  pillows. 

"Whod'yousee?" 

"Mr.  Edward." 

Teddy  laughed. 

"Like  your  cheek.     What's  he  say?" 

"'Oh,'  he  says,  "Ankey'  he  says.  'Leading  'and  in 
shop  3,  ain't  he?  That'll  be  all  right'  he  says.  'He's  been 
with  us  a  long  time*  I  like  him.  Nice-spoken  chap,  ain't 
he?" 

"Don't  know,"  said  Teddy.  "Never  spoke  to  him, 
though  I've  worked  for  him  and  his  father  going  on  twenty 
year.     Some  of  'em  say  he's  right  enough." 

Loo  chattered  away. 

"'Andsome  chap,  I  call  him,"  she  said.  "And 
talk  so  quiet  too  —  like  as  if  he'd  all  the  time. 
And  ain't  he  a  size?  Six  foot,  I  guess."  In  the 
archery  a  six-foot  man  was  unknown  except  in  the 
form  of  a  policeman.  "But  that  porter,  he's  a  crusty 
thing." 

"Old  Big  Belly,"  mused  Teddy.  "Yes.  'E  don't  like 
me.  And  so  you  'ad  it  out  with  Mr.  Edward.  Like  your 
cheek." 

He  pulled  her  down  upon  the  bed  and  caressed  her. 
The  shadow  had  passed  for  the  moment  from  their  lives. 
And  in  the  fleeting  joy  of  that  spurious  dawn  they  could 
dare  once  more  to  be  themselves. 


168  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

It  was  a  March  day,  beautifully  mild.  The  spring  had 
suddenly  swooped  down  on  the  waiting  city.  All  down 
the  Row  windows  were  flung  wide  to  welcome  it,  windows 
tight-sealed  against  the  winter  mists  and  murk  these  six 
months  past.  Here  and  there  in  the  misty  splendour 
above  the  array  of  roofs  something  glittered  like  the  spears 
of  a  host  advancing  up  the  banks  of  the  seaward-dashing 
river.  Rivulets  of  light  and  air  rushed  into  dens  noisome 
with  the  accumulated  smells  of  six  prisoned  months  — 
cleansing,  healing,  searching  out;  blowing  about  the  red- 
blotched  faces  of  babies  with  swollen  eyelids  who  laughed 
at  it  and  spread  forth  grimy  arms  as  to  a  friend;  ruffling 
the  rags  of  unspeakable  beds;  rushing  down  alleys  in  a 
strong  refreshing  tide,  calm  and  mild  and  beneficent. 

Loo  flung  the  window  wide.  The  inrushing  air  fingered 
tenderly  her  hair  and  lifted  the  red  lock  on  her  husband's 
forehead  as  he  lay  back  on  his  pillows. 

Through  the  window  came  occasionally  the  noises  of  the 
street  —  loud  splashes  in  the  silence.  And  behind,  the 
under-song  of  the  city,  broad-spread  for  leagues  around, 
rose  like  the  boom  of  breakers  on  a  far  shore.  And  borne 
bubble-wise  on  that  far  flood  of  sound  rose  another  sound, 
crisp,  clear,  uplifting.  It  was  the  purr  and  chirrup  of  a 
lark,  pouring  its  song  in  silvery  streamlets  into  the 
droughty  heart  of  the  huge  town. 

Teddy  listened  to  it. 

"He  sings  on,"  he  mused.     "Cage  and  all." 


THE  LULL  169 

Loo  leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"Plucky  little  moulder,"  she  said.  "I  can't  see  noth- 
ing.    Only  the  top  of  his  cage." 

"Trying  to  lift  the  roof,  I'll  lay,"  said  Teddy.  "Only 
he  can't." 

He  lay  back  on  his  pillows,  a  mysterious  beauty  in  his 
face.  His  shirt  was  open,  and  his  thin  chest  exposed  as 
though  to  lay  bare  his  heart  to  the  f  ulfilling  song. 

And  as  the  bird  showered  its  silvery  rain  into  that  living 
bowl  it  began  to  brim.  Teddy's  eyes  filled  and  over- 
flowed; his  spirit  uttered  itself  in  sound.  He  hummed. 
The  bird  sang  on,  tender  and  untiring,  its  soul  rising  to 
heaven  on  tremulous  wings,  its  body  pinned  to  earth  by 
its  environment.  The  hum  of  the  harkening  man  rose  in 
reply.  Words  emerged  and  took  to  themselves  wings. 
Teddy  sang.  The  bird  had  charmed  the  music  from  his 
tired  heart  as  the  sun  charms  the  blossom  from  the  winter 
black-thorn. 

The  door  opened  softly.  Doctor  English  stood  in  it  and 
listened. 

"You're  better,"  he  said  at  length  as  the  other  paused. 
"You're  a  new  man." 

Teddy  cleared  his  throat.  The  mist  faded  from  his 
eyes,  the  beauty  from  his  face. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  back  to  work  on  Mon- 
day." 

The  doctor  washed  his  hands. 


170  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"No,"  he  said,  shaking  a  wise  head. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  wouldn't,"  the  other  said.  "Pleurisy's  a  queer 
thing.  And  one  of  those  lungs  of  yours  is  none  too  strong 
at  the  best  of  times." 

"Must,  sir,"  said  Teddy.     "Times  is  too  tight." 

"If  you  must  you  must,"  said  the  doctor  quietly. 

He  tramped  home  in  that  mingled  mood  of  joy  and 
sorrow,  of  boundless  hope  in  the  Future  and  ineffable 
weariness  with  the  Present,  that  grew  on  him  always  with 
the  years. 

"Hankey'll  be  on  the  consumptive  list  next,"  he  told 
his  sister  that  evening.  "Waste,  waste,  waste!  A  stitch 
in  time  —  and  nobody'U  take  it.  And  we  call  ourselves 
a  great  nation." 

Miss  English  looked  up  from  her  accounts.  She  held 
it  to  be  one  of  her  first  duties  in  life  to  check  what  she 
called  the  sentimentality  of  her  brother.  To  this  end 
the  attitude  she  would  adopt  when  with  him  was  one  of 
extreme  severity. 

"I  daresay,"  she  said  harshly.  "If  so  it'll  be  his  own 
fault.  If  he  hadn't  gone  racing  he  wouldn't  have  got 
pleurisy." 

"Quite  so,"  retorted  her  brother.  "If  he  hadn't  been 
human  he  might  have  been  divine. 


XVIII 

THE  TWO  MEN 

On  Monday  at  five  Teddy  rose  without  a  struggle. 

Weak  though  he  was  the  effort  of  taking  up  life  afresh 
was  little  to  him. 

He  was  the  man  who  does  not  feel  the  lash  for  joy  of 
thinking  of  the  noose  he  has  escaped. 

Somehow  he  had  flung  off  the  Great  Woodpecker.  And 
the  hard-eyed  bird  skimmed  away  with  a  mocking  chuckle 
to  settle  in  another  tree,  and  there  with  keen  beak  set 
about  its  unending  business  of  criticism  and  searching  out. 

Meg  still  slept  in  her  cot  in  the  corner  as  he  rose. 

Teddy  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her. 

^She  spread  out  her  little  sleepy  arms  and  murmured, 
"Daddy!" 

"Yes,  duckie.  Daddy  ain't  done  yet,"  he  whispered 
and  went  downstairs  upon  his  toes. 

Loo  was  already  in  the  kitchen  and  had  a  cup  of  tea 
ready  for  him.  Then  she  muffled  him  up  and  came  to  the 
street-door  with  him. 

"Look  after  yourself,  old  man,"  she  said.  "And  wrap 
up  warm  when  you  come  out." 

171 


172  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  under- world  was  waking.  Dark  shadows  hunted 
down  the  street  in  the  lamplight,  some  of  them  silent,  some 
swearing;  here  and  there  the  silence  shot  with  a  hoarse 
laugh  or  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice. 

It  was  strangely  desolate  and  forlorn,  this  process 
of  the  waking  of  the  monster  city  to  the  business  of 
another  day. 

Teddy  plunged  into  the  swirl  of  the  dark  stream  that 
bore  him  swiftly  out  of  Loo's  sight. 

He  had  not  been  out  for  a  fortnight;  and  the  cold  air 
bathed  his  face  and  freshened  him. 

After  his  confinement  to  a  tiny  room,  the  feel  of  the 
atmosphere,  the  dingy  loving  sky  so  close  above  him,  the 
slop  and  shuffle  of  feet,  the  stir  and  mutter  of  rousing 
millions,  moved  him  strangely.  He  walked  with  up- 
lifted face,  rejoicing  in  his  new-found  freedom.  A  sickle 
moon  hung  over  a  high  black  roof,  and  as  he  trotted  down 
narrow  Mudsey  Wall  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  river  sliding 
snake-like  by. 

He  paused  and  peeped  through  an  archway  at  it. 

It  was  his  friend  again  to-day,  his  old  friend.  It  spoke 
to  him,  and  he  to  it.  Its  gleam,  its  swirl,  its  swiftness 
woke  in  him  rumours  and  memories  of  what  had  been. 
This  was  one  of  those  strange  moments  in  lif  e  when  a  whiff 
of  the  Past,  roused  by  some  mystic  touch  from  the  buried 
deeps  of  being,  rises  suddenly  in  the  soul  like  the  scent  of  a 
familiar  flower  unseen  but  recognized  at  night.     Dim  faces 


THE  TWO  MEN  173 

floated  up  in  the  water  of  his  mind.  He  heard  old  voices, 
recalled  old  scenes  —  himself  in  his  father's  arms  on  Lon- 
don Bridge,  the  river  streaked  and  streaming  underneath, 
the  seagulls  white-winged  about  his  head,  his  own  fat 
white  arm  clutching  at  them,  and  his  father's  whiskered 
and  weathered  cheek  close  to  his  own.  Then  he  saw  his 
mother  very  clearly.  She  was  smiling  at  him,  the  some- 
what quizzical  smile,  tender  and  teasing,  she  kept  for  him 
and  him  only. 

A  great  tenderness  stole  over  him  as  he  turned  down 
Halfpenny  Alley.  It  was  in  no  evil  mood  that  he  found 
himself  in  the  familiar  yard,  amid  the  old  smells,  greeting 
and  greeted. 

"What  ho,  Ted!" 

"Cheer,  Alf!" 

"Was  you  at  the  football  on  Saturday?" 

"No,  I  bin  laid  up." 

"Ah,  thought  I  hadn't  seen  you  about." 

He  passed  above  the  lime-pits  white  as  milk  in  the  half- 
light  and  was  one  of  the  first  to  enter  his  familiar  splitting- 
shop.     Early  as  he  was,  there  was  one  earlier. 

"Who's  that?"  cried  Teddy  cheerily. 

The  man  looked  up  through  spectacles,  and  Teddy  saw 
that  he  was  a  stranger. 

It  was  as  though  some  one  had  clutched  and  squeezed 
his  heart. 

He  walked  toward  the  other. 


174  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  man  was  standing  in  his  place,  bending  over  his 
machine;  and  the  man  was  taking  off  his  coat. 

"'Ello,  mate,"  Ted  said  quietly. 

The  other  looked  up  over  his  spectacles;  a  sturdy  bare-* 
necked  fellow  with  stubby  gray  hair  and  singularly  honest 
eyes. 

"  'Ello,"  he  said,  somewhat  unconciliatorily. 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  in  the  flare  of  the  gas: 
the  gray  man  and  the  red. 

Both  were  good  men,  sound  men,  true  men;  and  each 
had  a  wife,  a  home,  a  family. 

"I  thought  this  were  my  place,"  said  Teddy,  breathing 
deep. 

Each  stood  with  an  appropriating  hand  upon  the 
machine  as  though  conscious  that  to  lose  touch  was  to 
lose  claim. 

"I  understood,"  said  the  gray  man,  mild  and  stubborn, 
"  as  I'd  got  this  job  permanent." 

"All  I  know  is,"  said  Teddy,  very  white,  "I've  worked 
here  for  fifteen  years."  The  other  men  were  filing  into 
the  shop.     "Ain't  I,  Bert?" 

"You've  worked  there  alongside  o'  me  ever  since  I  been 
here,"  said  Swiney.  "And  that's  eight  year  come  June. 
And  now  they're  going  to  shunt  you.  That's  it.  A  little 
way  they've  got." 

"The  foreman  told  me  o'  Saturday,"  said  the  gray  man 
doggedly,  "  as  I  was  to  'ave  this  job  permanent  from  now." 


THE  TWO  MEN  175 

"Funny  thing,"  panted  Teddy,  his  chest  heaving. 
"Where's  the  foreman?" 

The  foreman,  who  was  always  a  little  late  on  Monday 
morning  and  always  irritable  after  the  religious  debauch 
of  the  previous  day,  came  fussing  into  the  shop  in  his  long 
white  overall. 

"'Ullo,  'Ankey,"he  said  harshly.  "You're  back  on  us, 
are  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Teddy.  "And  found  this  man  in  my 
place." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  foreman  fussily.  "We  kep' 
it  open  for  you  for  a  fortnight,  but  we  couldn't  keep  it  no 
longer.  You're  to  have  the  next  vacancy.  You  may  'ave 
to  wait  a  day  or  two." 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  Teddy  firmly.  "Mr.  Edward 
said " 

"  Outside,  if  you  please,"  said  the  foreman. 

"Mr.  Edward  said " 

The  foreman  threw  an  authoritative  finger  toward  the 
door. 

"Ah,  you  can  'ave  that  out  with  Mr.  Edward.  He'll 
be  here  at  ten  o'clock.  Come,"  he  laid  a  hand  upon  the 
other's  shoulder.     "  We  want  to  get  on." 

"Shall  I  get  to  work,  sir?"  said  the  gray  man. 

"Yes,  certainly." 

The  gray  man  put  on  his  apron. 

Reluctantly  Teddy's  hand  slipped  from  the  machine. 


176  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

It  was  as  though  he  was  relaxing  his  hold  on  life  and 
knew  it. 

Slowly  he  turned  his  back,  and  passed  shaking  down  the 
shop. 

A  few  yards  off  he  turned  and  looked  back. 

The  gray  man  at  his  machine  lifted  an  almost  appealing 
eye  to  his. 

All  that  was  generous  in  Teddy's  by  no  means  unchival- 
rous  soul  was  touched. 

"There!  it  ain't  no  fault  o*  your'n,  old  mate,"  he  said  in 
strangely  quiet  voice.     "I  don't  blame  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand.    The  other  took  it. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  got  a  wife  and 
children." 

"Ah,  you  ain't  the  only  one,"  answered  Teddy,  white 
and  quivering.     "But  'tain't  no  fault  o'  your'n." 

" 'Tain't  no  fault  of  his,"  muttered  Swiney.     "It's  the 

system.    That's  where  it  is.    Trample  each  other 

underfoot  in  the  interests  of  the  capitalists." 

The  foreman  was  coming  toward  them. 

"Too  much  talkin'  down  there,"  he  said.  "Come, 
'Ankey !  outside,  h'if  you  please." 


XIX 

OUTSIDE 

Teddy  found  himself  in  the  yard  amid  the  waste  and 
offal  of  a  great  industry  on  a  desolate  morning  of  March. 

It  was  still  dark,  but  eastward  through  a  break  in  the 
surrounding  walls  there  was  a  gleam  in  the  dingy  sky  be- 
hind black  chimneys  and  huddled  roofs. 

The  sun  was  rising  once  again  on  the  city  gathered  in 
gloom  beside  the  river  that  ran  like  a  shining  spear  through 
the  heart  of  it. 

Teddy  leaned  against  the  wall  and  sweated. 

He  stood  in  an  abyss,  hemmed  in  by  high  walls  lit 
by  windows  behind  which  were  the  workers,  warm  and 
busy. 

And  he  was  outside. 

There  was  a  stir  and  movement  all  about  him;  men  com- 
ing, going,  talking  cheerily,  so  cheerily. 

They  didn't  care.     What  was  it  to  them? 

Overhead  there  was  a  narrow  riband  of  sky,  dingy  and 
very  remote. 

The  abyss  in  which  Teddy  stood  was  called  the  yard. 
In  fact  it  was  little  more  than  a  narrow  way  down  which 

177 


178  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

a  line  of  rails  ran  to  Mudsey  Wall.  At  the  other  end  was 
the  gloomy  archway  opening  on  Halfpenny  Alley. 

In  the  archway  hung  a  great  lantern;  and  in  the  light  of 
it  he  could  see  the  dim  faces  of  the  unemployed  peering 
hungrily  through  the  gates. 

The  fat  porter  was  busy  with  a  brush  and  pail  outside 
his  little  wooden  hut.  He  was  the  only  man  to  be  seen 
and  Teddy  went  toward  him. 

"Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Sugar,"  he  said.  "I  understood  I 
was  to  'ave  my  place  on  Monday." 

The  fat  porter  did  not  look  up.  He  sluiced  about  with 
his  brush,  and  sent  a  swift  lake  swirling  under  Teddy's 
feet.  Teddy  felt  it  through  his  thin  boots  and  skipped. 
Some  of  the  men  peering  through  the  gates  giggled;  and 
the  fat  porter  looked  demure. 

"What  name?"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  thought  you  might  ha'  know'd  my  name  a'ter 
all  these  years,"  said  Teddy. 

"What  name?"  snarled  the  porter;  and  again  the  men 
outside  the  gate  giggled. 

"'Ankey,"  said  Teddy,  quivering. 

The  other  rounded  on  him. 

"Well,  why  couldn't  you  say  so  afore  instead  o'  keepin' 
me  muckin'  about?  Ain't  you  got  a  tongue  in  that 
bloody  red  'ead  o'  your'n?" 

Teddy's  eyes  flared  in  the  dusk;  but  he  said  nothing. 

Leisurely  the  fat  porter  retired  to  his  box;  leisurely  he 


OUTSIDE  179 

hung  his  hat  upon  a  peg;  and  leisurely  he  lit  a  gas-stove. 
Then  he  turned  to  a  ledger. 

"Le's  see.    What  name?" 

Teddy  was  hammered  white-hot  now. 

'"Ankey,"  quiet  and  quivering. 

"  'Ankey.  Yes.  Le's  see.  There's  a  man  got  your 
job."  He  pursed  his  fat  lips,  and  looked  official. 
"You're  to  'ave  first  vacancy."  He  took  off  his  pince- 
nez  and  slammed  the  ledger.     "And  lucky  to  get  it." 

"I  understood,"  said  Teddy  firmly,  "as  I  was  to  'ave 
my  job  o'  Monday  morning." 

The  fat  porter  was  nothing  if  he  was  not  a  bully.  His 
own  job  was  something  of  a  sinecure  and  he  held  it  against 
all  comers. 

He  rolled  off  his  stool,  and  came  out  of  his  box  on  to  the 
pavement. 

"Look  'ere,  you  'Ankey!"  he  called  in  loud,  harsh  voice. 
"  I've  'ad  enough  o'  you.  I'm  puttin'  you  over  the  heads 
of  all  these  pore  chaps  what  have  been  waitin'  out  here 
for  months  past.  And  yet  you  grouse.  If  it  ain't  good 
enough  say  so,  and  I'll  strike  your  name  off  the  books. 
There's  lots  o'  chaps  'ere  glad  to  take  the  chance  I'm 
offerin'  you." 

The  fat  man  had  the  crowd  outside  the  gate  with  him, 
and  he  knew  it.  They  mumbled  applause.  As  Teddy 
disappeared  through  the  ranks  of  them  one  or  two 
jeered. 


180  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Loo  was  giving  Meg  her  breakfast  as  he  entered.  She 
looked  up  at  him,  startled. 

"Hullo,  Ted!    Ain't  you  well  then?" 

"I'm  right  enough,"  he  said,  white  and  whistling. 

"What  then?" 

"Turn  me  off.  'Ello,  Meg?  Daddy's  out  o'  work. 
What  ye  think  o'  that  now?" 

He  seemed  to  have  swallowed  a  sword.  And  the  sword 
laughed  and  whistled  and  rattled  in  its  scabbard  as  a 
sword  might  before  it  sought  ease  and  silence  in  a  heart. 

"There  must  be  a  mistake,"  urged  Loo. 

"There's  no  mistake,"  said  Teddy,  cheerful  as  a  flame. 
"I'm  gettin'  on.  I'm  over  thirty.  They  want  some  one 
younger.     Here,   Meg!     Catch!" 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Loo  went.  It  was 
the  young  man  from  the  Mudsey  Artisans'  Dwellings 
Company  come  for  the  rent. 

"  That's  it,"  laughed  Teddy.     "  Let  'em  all  come ! " 

Loo  soothed  him  like  a  child;  but  it  was  long  before  she 
could  get  his  story  from  him. 

"It's  Big  Belly,"  he  gulped.  "Treat  me  like  a  dog. 
Guyin'  me  afore  'em  all.     If  I'd  'ad  a  knife  —  that's  all." 

He  was  moved  to  his  deeps. 

The  mother  put  the  child  upon  his  knee.  Uncaressed, 
she  slipped  to  the  ground  again. 

"There's  a  mistake,"  urged  Loo.  "You  must  go  round 
and  see  Mr,  Edward,     There's  no  one  there  when  the 


OUTSIDE  181 

works  open  —  only  foremen  and  such  trash.  They  don't 
know." 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  was  never  to  set  eyes  on  the 
place  again,"  answered  Teddy.  "Work  you  like  a 
slave  and  then  scrap  you  first  chance.  I  wouldn't  treat 
a  dog  so." 

"There!"  said  Loo.  "There!  Mr.  Edward's  all  right. 
He's  different.     A  gentleman." 

"He's  the  same  as  the  rest  of  'em,"  said  Teddy.  "'E 
don't  care  only  so  long  as  'e  can  bleed  the  life  out  o'  you 
and  add  to  his  pile.  Swiney's  right.  What's  it  matter  to 
the  masters?  There's  ten  chaps  for  every  place.  I've 
worked  there  fifteen  year;  but  that  don't  matter.  He's 
made  his  thousands  out  o'  me.  What's  he  care?  You're 
sick  for  a  week,  and  they  chuck  you." 

Later  in  the  day  she  got  him  to  go  round  to  the  yard. 

He  called  at  Mr.  Edward's  office. 

Could  he  see  Mr.  Edward? 

It  was  an  unusual  request  coming  from  a  workingman, 
and  the  clerk  looked  up  with  amused  eyes. 

"No.  I'm  afraid  you  can't  see  Mr.  Edward.  What's 
the  trouble?" 

Teddy  explained. 

The  clerk  with  the  amused  eyes  referred  him  to  the 
manager. 

Teddy  crossed  to  the  manager's  office. 

Might  he  see  the  manager? 


182  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Another  clerk,  this  one  fussy  and  irritable,  dealt  with 
him.     What  was  it?     What  was  it?     What  was  it? 

Teddy  said  that  he  had  been  referred  to  the  manager  by 
the  clerk  at  Mr.  Edward's  office,  and  stated  his  case. 

It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  manager.  The  manager 
couldn't  attend  to  the  complaints  of  individual  working- 
men.  If  Hankey  had  worked  here  for  fifteen  years,  as  he 
said,  he  should  have  known  that  by  now.  He  must  go  to 
the  clerk  of  the  works,  who  saw  to  all  those  matters. 

Teddy  went  —  muttering. 

The  clerk  of  the  works  assured  him  that  these  things 
didn't  come  within  his  province,  and  referred  him  to  his 
foreman. 

The  foreman  came  to  the  door  of  the  shop  and  pointed 
to  the  porter  in  the  yard. 

"There's  the  man  you  should  go  to,"  he  said. 

"Tm!"  laughed  Teddy. 

He  wandered  about  the  narrow  yard  amid  familiar 
smells  in  a  drizzling  rain,  his  coat  collar  turned  up  about 
his  thin  neck,  watching  other  men  at  work.  At  a  window 
he  could  see  the  amused  clerk  staring  at  him. 

He  was  being  baited. 

Under  the  archway  stood  the  fat  porter.  He  had  come 
out  of  his  box  and  was  talking  to  the  crowd  outside 
through  the  bars  of  the  gate.  Then  he  pointed  at  Teddy; 
and  they  laughed. 


OUTSIDE  183 

Teddy  stood  still  and  stared,  breathing  through  his 
nose. 

His  back  was  up  now,  and  his  old  resolution  had 
returned  to  him :  he  would  wait  for  Mr.  Edward  if  he  had 
to  wait  all  day. 

He  lolled  against  the  wall.  Three  went;  four  went; 
five. 

At  6.30  the  men  streamed  out  of  the  shops. 

The  door  of  Mr.  Edward's  office  opened  and  the  clerk 
came  out.  Teddy  stood  up,  expectant.  The  clerk  locked 
the  door  behind  him. 

Teddy  crossed  to  him. 

"Isn't  Mr.  Edward  in  there?"  he  asked. 

"No.  He's  abroad,"  said  the  clerk  with  the  amused 
eyes. 

Teddy  flashed  out  on  him. 
•  "And  couldn't  you  have  told  me  that  afore?" 

As  he  joined  the  stream  of  outgoing  workers,  he  was 
seething. 

"That's  manners,  that  is,"  he  said.  "Keep  you  waitin' 
all  day  in  the  rain  to  see  the  young  guv'nor,  and  then  tell 
you  he's  abroad." 

Some  of  them  had  heard  his  story,  and  clustered  about 
him,  asking  questions. 

"Tell  'em  how  long  you've  worked  here,  Ted,"  said 
Swiney,  who  never  missed  a  chance. 

"Fifteen  year!"  muttered  Teddy. 


184  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"There  you  are!"  cried  Swiney.  "That's  them. 
Sweat  the  soul  out  o'  you  for  fifteen  year  and  then  chuck 
you  first  chance.  It's  the  same  with  the  workers  and  the 
wornout  'orses.  Only  they  can't  send  us  to  Belgium  to 
make  cats'  meat  of  us  —  not  yet.  Perhaps  that'll  come 
in  God's  good  time.  And  they  say  old  Mapleton's  a 
churchwarden  in  his  country  place." 

The  fat  porter  stood  at  the  gate  as  the  workers  flowed 
past  him. 

"If  you'll  look  round  every  morning,  'Ankey,"  he  said 
with  caressing  insolence,  "perhaps  I'll  'ave  a  job  for  you 
one  day." 

Teddy  came  to  a  dead  halt  and  flared  white. 

"None   o'   your patronage,  Mr.   Big   Belly,"  he 

panted  with  starting  eyes;  and  passed  out  amid  muffled 
laughter. 


XX 

IN  THERE 

Loo  could  not  induce  Teddy  to  go  round  to  the  yard 
ext  morning. 

"Go  round  to  be  insulted  by  him!"  he  jeered.  "Not 
me.     Go  yourself  if  you  want." 

So  she  went  and  peeped  into  the  porter's  box. 

The  Ogre  sat  dumped  within. 

"Anything  for  my  chap  —  'Ankey?"  she  asked. 

"Where's  your  'usband?"  growled  the  fat  porter. 

"He's  trying  for  a  bit  of  work  at  the  waterside,"  said 
Loo. 

"He  must  come  round  himself,"  said  the  fat  porter, 
compressing  lips  of  blubber. 

"It  goes  against  the  grain  with  a  man,"  said  Loo. 

"He  must  come  himself,"  repeated  the  fat  porter 
masterfully.     "You've  twice  the  pluck  o'  him." 

Loo  flashed. 

"You  wouldn't  say  that  to  his  face ! "  she  cried. 

"Just  send  him  around  and  see,"  replied  the  porter 
grimly. 

She  returned  home  to  find  Teddy  out.     He  had  gone 

185 


186  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

round  to  inspect  the  place  where  Jas.  Allen  had  committed 
suicide. 

The  tragedy  had  taken  place  in  Paradise  Court,  one  of 
a  solid  phalanx  of  slums  through  the  archway  at  the 
back  of  Archery  Row.  The  houses  here  were  two-roomed, 
and  stood  back  to  back.  No  street  fed  them.  To  reach 
them  you  passed  down  a  narrow  way  between  blank  walls, 
skirted  a  disused  tannery,  and  came  upon  a  regiment  of 
alleys,  rank  on  rank,  huddled  away,  it  seemed,  out  of  sight 
of  God  and  Man;  blind  all  of  them,  paved,  and  so  narrow 
that  a  big  man  walking  with  wide  arms  could  almost 
touch  the  walls  on  either  side. 

Standing  back  from  the  street,  they  were  strangely 
quiet,  these  tombs  that  prisoned  living  souls.  There  was 
little  sunlight  except  from  the  eyes  of  the  rascal  boys  and 
girls  who  sprawled  about  the  pavements,  gambled  with 
buttons,  lay  together  in  groups  like  puppies,  a  huddle  of 
limbs  and  laughing  faces,  the  boys  nursing  the  babies  as 
often  as  the  girls,  a  welter  of  life,  radiant  in  rags,  abrim 
with  joy  that  no  environment  however  miserable  could 
quench. 

This  solid  phalanx  of  slums  crouched  away  forgotten  at 
the  back  of  high  surrounding  houses,  like  a  flock  of  dingy 
shepherdless  sheep  beneath  a  wall.  Many  people  had 
lived  in  Mudsey  for  years  without  knowing  of  its  existence; 
so  unobtrusive  was  it.     Others  who  had  known  preferred 


IN  THERE  187 

to  forget.  Yet  here  and  in  like  haunts  dwelt  a  large  half 
of  Mudsey's  inhabitants. 

They  were  within  a  hand's  throw  of  Archery  Row  but 
miles  removed  from  it  socially.  Teddy  always  spoke  of 
this  plague  patch  at  his  back  door  as  through  the  arch- 
way. And  through  the  archway  was  the  road  to  the 
Abyss.  Men  had  disappeared  from  Archery  Row  through 
it  on  the  way  to  the  dark  and  desolate  waters  in  which 
they  went  down  for  ever.  Such  an  one  was  Jas.  Allen,  the 
scene  of  whose  suicide  Teddy  now  sought. 

It  was  seldom  that  Teddy  penetrated  to  this  under- 
world. When  he  did  so  he  was  shy  and  suspicious. 
Somehow  he  felt  himself  an  intruder;  and  the  fierce 
young  women  in  the  doors  with  the  gaudy  beads  about 
the  necks  and  the  tattooed  arms  made  him  nervous. 
Therefore  he  walked  stealthily  and  with  downward  eyes. 
Moreover,  a  fear  of  meeting  Miss  English,  who  was  al- 
ways in  and  out  of  these  alleys  on  her  Martha  business, 
possessed  him;  and  he  had  a  He  ready  for  her  should  she 
pounce  upon  him  —  that  solid  woman  with  her  critical 
eye  summing  him  up  through  gold-rimmed  pince-nez. 

Teddy  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  house  he  sought. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  came  out  thoughtfully. 
The  present  tenant  followed  him,  talking  still. 
"I  suppose  *e  was  all  out.     Couldn't  see  nothing  for  it 
only  in  there.     He  was  getting  on,  ye  see.     Over  fifty. 


188  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

There's  not  much  doing  for  chaps  that  age  hereabouts 
now." 

Teddy  stared  at  his  feet. 

"And  what  come  to  'is  wife  and  kids?" 

"Children's  gone  in  there."  The  man  jerked  a  thumb 
across  his  shoulder.     "  She's  in  the  asylum." 

Teddy  walked  away,  his  red  head  down,  and  eyes  on  his 
feet.  Once  through  the  archway  he  did  not  turn  home- 
ward but  walked  down  hard,  unsympathetic  streets,  unsee- 
ing and  unseen,  till  he  came  to  the  Workhouse. 

There  he  paused. 

Once  he  too  had  been  in  there.  Nobody  in  the  world 
now  knew  it  —  not  Loo,  not  even  Doctor  English.  If 
there  was  any  evidence  of  it  on  earth  it  was  in  some  for- 
gotten ledger  of  thirty  years  ago.  But  if  the  world  had 
forgotten  it,  he  had  not.  The  experience  had  been 
branded  upon  his  child-soul. 

It  was  after  his  mother's  removal  that  they  had  taken 
him  in  there. 

He  had  been  put  in  a  big  bare  room  with  other  children. 
And  the  horror  of  it  was  that  they  were  not  like  children  — 
not  at  least  like  the  children  he  knew,  the  sunlight  in  their 
eyes,  and  the  laughter  in  their  limbs.  They  were  like 
dolls;  and  like  dolls  they  sat  mechanically  in  rows  against 
the  wall  all  dressed  alike.  Some  of  them,  moreover,  were 
maimed  —  an  eye  shot  here,  a  broken  nose,  an  old  scar; 
and  some  of  them  were  mangy,  with  great  bald  patches 


IN  THERE  189 

on  their  skulls,  or  plaster  crosses.  Imaginative  Teddy 
almost  expected  to  see  the  sawdust  tumbling  out  of  them 
or  a  detached  china-leg  lying  on  the  floor.  They  all 
dribbled  at  the  nose;  and  they  never  smiled  or  talked.  It 
was  not  that  they  were  forbidden  to;  it  was  that  they  had 
no  wish  to.  They  sat  against  the  wall,  piteously  patient, 
tragically  good.  One  little  girl  had  a  doll.  She  clutched 
it  by  the  body  and  banged  its  head  with  dull  regularity 
against  the  floor.  At  one  end  of  the  room  a  great  fire 
leaped  and  laughed  grimly  in  an  iron  cage,  its  flames 
escaping  up  the  long  dark  chimney  to  heaven  beyond.  In 
a  corner  were  some  cots  with  babies  lying  on  their  backs 
staring  all  day  long  at  the  ceiling.  Nobody  nursed  them. 
Nobody  cooed  to  them,  coaxed  them,  chirruped  to  them, 
made  them  gurgle,  and  brought  the  love-light  to  their 
eyes.  The  difference  between  the  babies  and  the  children 
was  that  the  children  sat  against  the  walls,  the  babies 
lay  upon  their  backs.  The  children  in  the  main  were 
silent  except  for  sniffling  —  their  six  or  seven  years 
of  life  had  taught  them  to  endure;  the  babies  whimp- 
ered now  and  then  —  they  had  not  learnt  their  lesson 
as   yet. 

Teddy  remembered  all  that  well  —  the  homelessness, 
the  desolation,  the  lack  of  love,  the  absence  of  all  sense  of 
the  individual  as  a  living  and  a  precious  soul.  But  most 
of  all  he  remembered  a  ramshackle  ghoul-girl  who  haunted 
the  room.     The  sight  of  her  had  made  him  scream  then  — 


190  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

so  that  they  smacked  him;  and  the  memory  of  her  made 
him  sick  still.  She  could  not  have  been  more  than  eigh- 
teen or  so;  but  she  had  a  long  gray  face,  old,  hollow,  and 
sharp-featured,  and  black  hair  that  hung  in  a  lank  and 
stringy  mat  down  to  her  neck. 

She  wore  a  gray  print  dress,  and  on  her  head  was  a 
cap  perched  awry.  Her  right  hand  was  like  a  shrivelled 
claw  and  hung  down  from  the  wrist;  and  she  floppped 
about  the  room  like  a  winged  bird.  Her  forehead  was 
confined  and  sloped  back  suddenly;  her  head  was  high- 
peaked,  almost  conical;  and  her  eyes  close-set  and  dreadful 
behind  a  tallowy  nose.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she 
made  disgusting  noises. 

Beside  her  there  was  a  jolly  buxom  lass  of  sixteen  or  so 
fatter  than  any  girl  of  that  age  Teddy  had  ever  seen  — 
and  crosser.  Her  size  seemed  to  amuse  the  ghoul-girl, 
who  made  dabs  at  her  with  her  claw  and  croaked,  a  cruel 
lewd  light  glittering  in  her  eyes.  The  fat  girl  would  repel 
the  other's  advances  sullenly  and  with  smacks. 

Every  now  and  then  a  pale,  desiccated  woman  in  a  uni- 
form, whom  the  fat  girl  called  Nurse,  looked  in.  And 
once  she  stayed  for  a  long  time  and  rolled  bandages. 
While  she  was  there  the  ghoul-girl  no  longer  croaked  and 
teased  her  mate,  and  the  fat  girl  made  a  great  show  of 
bustling  around  and  wiping  noses  —  to  relax  again  directly 
the  desiccated  woman's  back  was  turned. 

Nobody  was  brutal;  and  nobdy  cared.      There  was 


IN  THERE  191 

not  very  much  obvious  neglect  —  only  the  slow,  insidious 
cruelty  of  carelessness.  But  Teddy  ceased  to  be  himself. 
His  child-soul  died  unconsciously  within  him.  He  was  no 
longer  little  Teddy  Boniface  with  a  personality  to  be 
encouraged:  he  was  part  of  a  machine  and  must  fit  into 
his  place.  It  had  lasted  some  hundred  unforgettable 
hours,  this  slow  absorption  of  an  individual  by  his  environ- 
ment. Then  he  had  been  taken  away  in  a  cab  to  the 
station.  From  there  he  had  gone  by  a  funny  dark  railway 
a  long,  long  way;  and  after  that  there  was  an  interminable 
'bus  ride.  Finally  he  was  dropped  at  his  aunt's;  and  he 
didn't  know  that  he  had  been  taken  a  circuit  of  twenty 
miles  and  at  the  end  landed  within  a  thousand  yards  of  his 
starting-point.  There  was  an  immense  amount  of  secrecy 
about  his  journey.  In  the  course  of  it  he  was  handed  over 
to  the  keeping  of  four  several  women,  who  passed  him  from 
hand  to  hand,  some  with  winks,  some  with  self-consciously 
close-clenched  lips. 

And  the  first  thing  his  aunt  had  impressed  upon  him 
with  bony  forefinger  was  that  he  was  never,  never  to  tell 
ariy  living  soul  that  he  had  been  in  there. 

He  didn't  wish  to  tell.  All  he  wished  to  do  was  to  for- 
get. Moreover,  he  could  not  tell,  even  had  he  wished  to : 
for  he  had  no  notion  where  it  was  that  he  had  been.  And 
it  was  not  till  he  was  well  on  in  his  teens  that  a  chance 
reading  of  a  paper  revealed  to  him  that  once  he  had  been  a 
Workhouse  child. 


192  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

It  was  with  a  strange  and  brooding  sense  of  dread  that 
he  now  peered  through  the  Union  gates. 

Whether  it  was  this  Workhouse  of  which  he  had  once 
been  an  inmate  or  another  he  did  not  know.  But  there 
was  a  dreadful  familiarity  about  its  desolation,  its  home- 
less, mechanical  air,  that  brought  the  shuddering  memories 
back  to  his  mind. 

And  now  as  he  peered  through  the  Workhouse  gate  the 
sea-green  mists  issued  from  his  soul  and  crept  into  his 
blood,  discolouring  his  face. 

As  he  turned  away  he  came  across  a  little  school  of 
children,  all  dressed  alike  in  long  red  capes  and  blue  bon- 
nets, shuffling  along  two  by  two,  and  hand  in  hand. 
There  were  no  smiles  on  their  faces  or  joy  in  their  walk. 
They  were  not  naughty;  they  did  not  chatter;  they  did 
not  hop  in  and  out  of  the  gutter  with  brisk  delight.  They 
kept  to  the  pavement  —  a  little  army  of  mechanical  men 
and  women  clattering  along  in  hob-nailed  boots.  Behind 
them  was  an  old  spinal  carriage  in  which  were  perched  a 
crowd  of  babies.  Two  old  women  in  black  bonnets  pushed 
it  wearily  along. 

Teddy  watched  the  mournful  little  procession 
drift   by. 

"Them  the  Workhouse  children?"  he  asked  one  of  the 
old  women. 

Glad  of  the  excuse,  she  paused. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "These  are  the  not- wanteds."     The 


IN  THERE  193 

children  grouped  about  her  stared  up  at  her  with  indif- 
ferent eyes. 

A  wave  of  green  swept  across  Teddy's  face. 

"Which  are  Allen's?"  he  asked. 

"Them  two."  She  pointed.  "We  allows  'em  together 
when  they're  brother  and  sister.  Keeps  'em  more  quieter 
like." 

Teddy  walked  home. 

"Well,  old  man,  where  you  been?"  asked  Loo,  as  he 
entered. 

He  sat  down  quietly  before  the  fire. 

"I  been  round  looking  at  the  not-wanteds,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"And  who  are  they?" 

"They're  the  same  as  me." 

When  Meg  came  in  that  evening  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  nursed  her  covetously.  Her  head  was  on  his  shoul- 
der; his  thin-shirted  arms  wound  about  her. 

She  played  with  his  moustache. 

"  'Aven't  you  been  to  work,  daddy? 

"No,  duckie." 

"Where  you  been?" 

He  said  after  a  pause  — 

"I  been  round  to  the  Workhouse." 

Meg,  cozy  in  her  daddy's  arms,  laughed. 

"What's  the  Workhouse,  daddy?" 


194  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

It  was  some  time  before  he  answered, 

"It's  the  scrap-heap.  .  .  .  It's  where  they  chuck  you, 
duckie,  when  they've  squeezed  all  they  can  out  of  you." 

"Take  Meg  there." 

Teddy  said  nothing,  but  his  arms  tightened  about  his 
child. 

Next  morning  he  made  no  difficulty  about  going  to  the 
yard. 

"Anything  for  me,  Mr.  Sugar?"  he  asked  the  porter 
quietly. 

The  Ogre  sat  and  blinked  within  with  pursed  lips. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "This  here,"  and  handed  him  an 
envelope. 

The  envelope  contained  a  printed  slip  directing  his 
attention  to  the  enclosed,  which  ran: 

Swearing  on  the  premises  strictly  prohibited.  Any  employe  offending 
in  this  matter  will  be  liable  to  suspension,  or  if  the  offence  be  repeated  to 
instant  dismissal. 

"I  'ave  to  warn  you,"  said  the  fat  porter  officially, 
"that  any  repetition  of  this  offence  will  cause  your  dis- 
missal." 

Teddy  trembled. 

"And  I  suppose  you  never  passed  no  remark  about  my 
bloody  red  'ead,"  he  said. 

"Never,"  replied  the  fat  porter  magnificently.  "Move 
on." 

He  rolled  off  his  stool  and  out  into  the  archway. 


XXI 
MISS  ENGLISH  TO  THE  RESCUE 

Miss  English  marched  down  Halfpenny  Alley,  her 
colours  flying;  and  her  hat  that  was  like  a  helmet  added  to 
her  militant  air. 

In  a  room  in  Pleasant  Place  she  had  found  a  shoal  of 
children  untended  by  their  slattern  mother.  It  was  her 
opportunity  long  sought.  With  deft  fingers  she  stripped 
a  child  and  found  its  body  in  the  condition  she  had  ex- 
pected. The  missing  mother  had  reentered  to  find  her 
brat  naked  save  for  a  stocking.  The  two  women,  enemies 
of  old,  had  battled  shrilly;  Miss  English,  a  resolute  fighter, 
rejoicing  in  the  struggle.  Flashing  still,  she  was  now  on 
her  way  to  fetch  the  school-nurse  to  take  the  children  off  to 
the  cleansing  station. 

Just  past  Mapleton's  archway  a  man  ran  by  her 
swiftly. 

He  did  not  see  her,  did  not  salute  her. 

Happily  the  shrewd-eyed  woman  recognized  him  as  he 
hunted  by  with  that  stark- white  look  upon  his  face.'* 

"Teddy!"  she  called  after  him. 

He  stopped  and  came  back  to  her. 

195 


196  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"I  didn't  see  it  was  you,  Miss,"  he  panted,  touching 
his  forehead. 

The  two  had  never  been  sympathetic.  She  could  not 
understand  his  nature  as  did  her  brother;  nor  he  her  ster- 
ling qualities,  her  sound,  practical  capacity.  She  was  too 
critical  for  him.  Yet  he  respected  her;  and  he  had  good 
cause. 

That  solid  woman,  if  she  was  a  severe  critic,  was  a  good 
friend  especially  in  adversity.  The  poor  of  Mudsey  did 
not  love  her,  as  many  of  them  loved  her  brother;  but  they 
came  to  her  when  they  were  in  trouble.  Doctor  English 
had  once  said  of  his  sister  in  his  laughing  way  that  if  her 
heart  was  not  soft  it  was  sound,  adding  that  it  was  not 
soft  perhaps  because  it  was  sound. 

Her  shrewd  eyes  somewhat  blurred  behind  her  high- 
perched  pince-nez  now  took  Teddy  in  with  kind  compre- 
hension. 

The  little  cockney  stood  before  her  white  about  the 
nostrils  and  breathing  hard. 

"What!  haven't  they  taken  you  on  again,  Teddy?"  she 
asked,  amazed. 

"No,  Miss." 

She  took  some  time  to  wring  his  story  from  him. 

"But  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  cried.  "It's 
unjust.  Why,  you've  worked  there  ever  since  I've  known 
you." 

"That  don't  make  no  odds  to  them,  Miss,"  said  Teddy 


MISS  ENGLISH  TO  THE  RESCUE  197 

quietly.  "Only  so  long  as  there's  chaps  to  do  the  work 
for  'em.  The  more  you  study  the  masters,  the  less  they 
study  you.     That's  how  it  is  nowadays." 

"But  the  Mapletons!"  cried  Miss  English. 

"They're  the  same  as  the  rest,  Miss,"  said  Teddy. 
"All  for  theirselves.     "Don't  care  about  us." 

Miss  English  ignored  him. 

"I'll  go  round  and  see  Mr.  Edward  myself,"  she  said. 

"He's  abroad,  Miss." 

"Then  I'll  see  the  manager  —  at  once." 

She  marched  off  resolutely  down  the  alley,  her  short 
brown  skirts  swinging,  her  well-shod  feet  treading  firmly. 
This  was  her  work  in  life  —  to  adjust  here,  to  oil  there,  to 
keep  the  old  machine  running  as  smoothly  as  might  be. 
Her  brother's  dreams  of  a  new  and  improved  machine,  or 
of  the  old  machine  running  on  new  lines  till  it  ran  out  of 
memory  of  its  former  self,  were  not  for  her.  It  was  hers 
to  deal  with  the  day  and  the  evil  thereof;  and  she  dealt 
with  it  admirably. 

As  Teddy  turned  out  of  the  alley  he  looked  back. 

Miss  English  was  having  words  with  the  fat  porter  in 
the  archway.  For  the  first  time  for  weeks  Teddy  laughed. 
He  was  chuckling  still  as  he  entered  his  house. 

Loo  met  him  with  sympathetic  smiles. 

She  had  not  seen  that  old  twinkling  look  in  Teddy's 
eyes  for  days. 

"What  is  it,  dad?"  she  asked. 


198  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Teddy  jerked  over  his  shoulder. 

"'Er,"  he  said. 

In  that  home  and  many  others  in  Mudsey  the  feminine 
pronoun  stood  always  for  Miss  English. 

"What?" 

"Big  Belly,"  chuckled  Teddy.  "Give  him  pepper,  I'll 
lay." 

An  hour  later  Miss  English  turned  up.  She  was  angry 
with  the  world,  angry  with  the  manager,  angry  with  Mr. 
Edward  —  but  victorious. 

The  manager  would  see  Teddy  at  ten  next  morning. 

"They  try  to  shift  the  responsibility  from  one  man  to 
the  other,"  she  panted,  patting  her  hair.  "But  I  cor- 
nered 'em  at  last. 

Teddy  grinned  in  sympathy.  He  had  been  through 
that  trouble  himself. 

Next  morning  he  went. 

The  fat  porter  was  either  cowed  or  conciliated. 

"Better  news  to-day,"  he  said.  "The  manager  '11 
see  you  at  ten." 

"I  know  that,"  answered  Teddy  curtly  and  passed  on. 

The  manager  was  a  portly  person  who  breathed  short 
and  walked  tenderly  on  his  feet. 

"Well,  you've  had  bad  luck,  Hankey,"  he  said.  "It's  a 
hard  case,  certainly." 

"I  ain't  the  only  one,"  said  Teddy  sturdily. 


MISS  ENGLISH  TO  THE  RESCUE  199 

The  manager  turned  over  a  ledger. 

"There  isn't  a  vacancy  as  yet  in  a  splitting-shop,"  he 
said.  "I've  been  looking  to  see  if  I  can  find  you  a  job  to 
tide  you  over  a  bad  spell.  I'm  afraid  I've  nothing  very 
tempting  to  offer.  The  only  work  I  can  find  you  is  a 
drawing  job  in  the  pits." 

He  looked  up  warily. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Teddy  and  clenched  his  lips. 

His  strength  lay  in  his  hands  and  not  in  his  body.  He 
was  a  skilled  mechanic,  not  a  navvy.  Moreover,  to 
become  a  labourer  was  a  social  drop.  He  would  lose 
caste;  his  mates  would  chaff  him.  Again  he  was  sus- 
picious. Once  they  got  him  on  a  lower  level,  might  they 
not  keep  him  there?  Swiney  was  in  his  blood  —  Swiney 
the  Cynic,  who  believed  in  nobody  and  least  of  all  em- 
ployers. 

"Well,  you  know  your  own  interests  best,  my  lad,"  said 
the  portly  manager,  and  opened  the  door.  "A  job  may 
fall  in  for  you  to-morrow,  or  you  may  have  to  wait  a 
month.  If  you've  got  enough  laid  by  to  carry  you  over  a 
bad  spell,  I'm  not  sure  you're  not  right." 

Teddy  marched  out  with  a  sparkle  in  his  eyes. 

"Good-day,  sir,"  he  said.  "I've  worked  here  for 
fifteen  year.  And  Mr.  Edward  said  my  place  should  be 
kept." 

The  manager  stood  in  the  crack  of  the  door. 

"Did  he  promise  you?" 


200  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"He  promised  my  wife,  sir." 

The  manager  turned  to  his  office,  shaking  his  head. 

"There's  been  some  muddle  over  this,"  he  said  to  the 
head-clerk.     "Says  he's  worked  here  fifteen  years." 

"So  he  has,  sir,"  replied  that  functionary. 

The  manager  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Then  how  on  earth  does  Mr.  Edward  come  to  give  his 
place  away?" 

The  head-clerk  shook  his  shrewd  gray  head  and  dropped 
his  voice. 

"Mr.  Edward's  this  new  sort  o'  young  man,"  he  said 
confidentially.  "Soft.  He'll  give  away  a  job  he's  got 
no  manner  o'  business  to  give  away  just  to  save  himself 
the  sight  of  suffering.  Only  makes  more  misery  in  the 
end,  I  say." 

"Well,"  said  the  manager,  "we  must  hope  a  job  '11 
fall  in  soon." 

And  in  fact  Teddy  got  his  place  within  the  week. 

He  had  been  out  of  work  just  eight  days. 

It  was  not  long;  but  it  was  long  enough  for  him  to  learn 
his  lesson. 

And  the  lesson  he  had  learnt  was  the  lesson  that  the 
workers  all  over  the  world  are  learning  —  that  once  the 
Giant  Wheel  spins  you  off  into  Space,  it  is  mighty  hard 
to  get  back  on  to  the  rim. 


PART  II 
SQUEEZED 


1  am  a  man 
More  sinned  against  than  sinnina.  — Shakespeare. 


XXII 
THE   PLANK 

Somewhat  late  in  the  day  Teddy  Hankey  began  to 
save. 

"Best  lay  by  against  a  rainy  day,"  he  said.  "There's 
Meg." 

"I'm  for  it,"  answered  Loo  brightly. 

And  thereafter  save!  was  the  word  in  23  Archery  Row. 

The  two  set  to  work  together  manfully  to  put  a  plank 
between  themselves  and  the  Abyss  into  which  they  saw 
men  and  women  on  all  sides  of  them  tumbling. 

There  were  no  more  new  clothes  for  Teddy.  He  put 
youth  and  swagger  behind  him  for  ever  as  he  wrestled  with 
the  grim  and  naked  facts  of  life.  Now  he  cobbled  Meg's 
shoes,  his  own  boots,  and  his  wife's.  A  few  little  personal 
adornments  of  his  romantic  days  he  pawned. 

"Where's  your  pin  then?"  asked  Loo. 

Teddy  jerked  significantly  over  his  shoulder.  Then 
both  smiled. 

And  Loo  was  as  earnest  as  Teddy  and  even  more  so  in 
her  desire  to  build  a  little  ark  in  which  Meg  might  float 
secure  upon  the  flood.     She   turned  and  returned  her 

203 


204  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

skirts.  She  pawned  her  brooch  and  several  little  trinkets 
—  her  only  ornament  now  the  locket  with  photograph  of 
her  child  on  one  side  of  it  and  of  her  husband  on  the  other. 

There  began  to  be  a  certain  noble  shabbiness  about  them 
both.     Neighbours  in  the  Archery  noticed  it  and  nodded. 

The  Hankeys  were  going  down.  Acquaintances  drew 
away  from  them;  friends  in  their  own  class  they  had  none. 

Of  the  three  in  23  Archery  Row,  Meg  was  the  only  one 
who  was  still  bright  as  a  new  pin. 

"She  shan't  go  short  whatever  comes,"  said  Teddy. 

And  indeed  the  child  lacked  for  nothing.  She  was 
round  and  fat  as  a  baby  rabbit,  snuggling  cozily  away  in 
her  sheepskin  fur-coat. 

The  Governess  from  the  school  came  round  to  see  her 
in  her  home,  after  she  had  received  a  prize  for  regular 
attendance. 

"It's  a  pleasure  to  see  her,"  she  said  to  smiling  Loo. 
"  I  wish  they  were  all  like  that." 

"We've  only  the  one,  you  see,"  answered  the  happy 
mother.     "That  makes  a  difference." 

The  Governess  met  Miss  English  farther  down  the 
street. 

"And  the  home!"  she  said.     "It's  so  clean." 

"Yes;  it's  not  what  it  was,"  replied  the  other  gravely. 
"They're  pinching  and  paring  —  to  make  up  lost  time." 

Now  that  Meg  was  at  school  Loo  proposed  to  make  her 


THE   PLANK  205 

leisure  profitable  and  to  that  end  sought  work  of  her  old 
employers,  the  corset-embroiderers.  She  found  things 
were  not  flourishing  with  them.  They  now  employed  seven 
hands  where  in  her  day  they  had  employed  seventeen. 
Machinery  was  supplanting  hand-labour.  All  the  fore- 
woman could  promise  was  that  she  would  remember  her. 
Then  Loo  thought  of  taking  in  a  lodger.  But  Teddy's  old 
fastidiousness  reasserted  itself.  A  lodger  meant  for  him 
the  break-up  of  his  home  and  the  intrusion  of  a  foreign 
element. 

"We  ain't  come  to  that  yet,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of 
asperity. 

Besides  a  lodger  stood  for  outlay  —  the  buying  of  a 
bed  and  bedroom  furniture.  .  .  .  And  the  word  was 
still  save!  save!  save! 

And  they  saved.  Little  by  little,  a  shilling  or  two  a 
week,  they  put  by.  Teddy  would  not  trust  his  money  out 
of  sight  in  a  bank  or  building  society.  Nor  would  he  put 
it  in  a  desk,  which  would  be  the  first  thing  a  burglar  would 
break  into.  So  a  little  hoard  gathered  beneath  the  tea  in 
the  old  teapot  with  the  broken  spout  at  the  back  of  the 
cupboard.  The  silver  became  gold,  and  the  gold  accumu- 
lated. 

"Quite  the  capitalist!"  laughed  Loo.  "I  wonder  what 
Mr.  Swiney'd  say." 

Teddy  said  little.  The  bitter  stage  had  passed;  and 
he  seemed  to  have  settled  down.     The  iron  had  entered 


206  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

into  his  soul.  But  the  strain  was  telling  on  him.  If  he 
had  ceased  to  be  defiant,  he  began  to  have  the  eyes  of  a 
hunted  animal;  and  he  was  growing  haggard  as  a  winter 
tree.  It  may  be  that  he  was  suffering  too  deeply  now  to 
utter  his  pain;  it  may  be  that  Swiney  was  no  longer  at  his 
side  to  pour  embittered  poison  into  his  ear.  For  he  was 
working  now  on  another  splitting-machine  among  new 
faces.  It  was  like  going  back  to  school  afresh;  and  he 
didn't  like  it;  and  his  cough  grew  worse.  On  the  old 
machine  the  men  alongside  of  whom  he  had  worked  for 
years  had  grown  used  to  it  and  him.  It  was  not  so  with 
his  new  mates. 

"Spitter  'Ankey,"  they  called  him,  and  muttered  about 
him  among  themselves  with  down-bowed  heads. 

"Ain't  he  well  then?" 

"Why  don't  he  bring  a  spittoon?" 

Teddy  heard  them.  And  after  that  he  swallowed  the 
phlegm,  and  it  was  not  good  for  him. 

In  low-lying  Mudsey  on  the  river-bank  consumption 
was  the  peril  that  crept  by  night.  In  a  house  through  the 
archway  a  family  of  five  had  recently  been  carried  off 
by  the  White  Scourge;  and  the  day  the  last  of  them  was 
taken  out  feet  first  a  new  family  had  come  in. 

The  sanitary  inspector,  the  public  health  officer,  the 
guardians,  the  poor  law  medical  officer  were  all  earnest 
and  active  in  their  attempts  to  combat  the  disease.  And 
of  late  a  new  and  tremendous  force  had  been  coming  to 


THE  PLANK  207 

the  aid  of  the  official  army.  The  workingmen  themselves 
were  waking  to  the  danger  and  the  need  for  precaution. 
Education  was  raising  them;  experience  was  teaching 
them;  and  most  of  all  Doctor  English,  who  had  been 
fighting  the  evil  for  thirty  years,  was  never  tired  of  telling 
them  that  Prevention  was  within  their  reach  if  they  would 
work  for  it.  It  was  largely  owing  to  his  efforts  that  of 
late  Mudsey's  hoardings  had  been  placarded  with  a  mon- 
ster bill: 

CRUSADE    AGAINST    CONSUMPTION 

IN  THE  UNITED   KINGDOM 

Consumption  Every 

Kills  Jb  Tenth 

60,000  Person 

Persons  Dies  of 

Each  Year  1  Consumption 

Consumption  can  be  prevented. 
Will  you  help? 

And  in  the  centre  was  a  picture  of  a  nurse  with  a  white 
apron  marked  with  a  cross  of  blood. 

One  such  placard  stared  the  workers  of  Mapleton's  in 
the  face  as  they  emerged  from  the  yard.  On  the  evening 
it  first  appeared  they  gathered  in  groups  with  upturned 
faces  in  the  Alley  and  read  it. 

Some  of  them  spoke  to  the  foreman,  who  looked  at 


208  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Teddy,  passing  at  the  moment.     Teddy  felt  the  other's 
eye  upon  him. 

A  day  or  two  later  a  notice  was  fixed  to  the  door  of  the 
shop  — 

No  spitting  allowed  in  the  shops.  Employes  in  their  own  interests  and 
in  that  of  their  children  are  requested  to  see  that  this  regulation  is 
respected. 

Teddy  stood  before  the  notice  and  read  it. 

"Yes,  that's  you,  my  son,"  said  a  passing  workman  with 
unusual  brutality. 

Teddy  answered  nothing.  He  was  not  ready  of  retort 
nowadays.  His  mind  was  occupied.  It  was  on  the  teapot 
with  the  broken  spout  at  the  back  of  the  cupboard  in  the 
kitchen. 

Teddy,  a  spendthrift  by  nature,  but  always  rather  in 
excess,  was  swinging  now  to  the  other  extreme.  He  was 
becoming  a  miser.  At  one  time  he  thought  even  of  retir- 
ing from  his  sick  club  to  save  the  weekly  subscription. 
Luckily  Miss  English  heard  of  the  suggested  economy  and 
crushed  it  with  a  characteristic  word.     Idiotic  she  called  it. 

Teddy  was  saving;  but  he  wasn't  saving  fast  enough  to 
please  himself.  He  wanted  more  —  a  larger  plank  be- 
tween his  home  and  the  Abyss.  And  a  chance  for  secur- 
ing such  a  plank  came  his  way. 

One  day  a  brown-eyed  German  Jew  called.  He  was  a 
little  monkey  of  a  man  with  high  cheek-bones,  a  huge 


THE  PLANK  209 

mouthful  of  teeth,  and  a  way  of  cocking  his  face  to  look  at 
you  through  pince-nez.  He  wore  a  smart  top-hat  and  a 
velvet-collared  coat;  but  he  deteriorated  sadly  nearer 
earth,  his  boots  being  shabby,  his  trousers  ragged  at  the 
bottom. 

Teddy,  Meg  in  his  arms,  opened  to  him,  and  asked  the 
man  his  business. 

He  was  it  seemed  the  agent  for  the  Atlas  Life  Insur- 
ance Company  of  Canada.  Would  the  gentleman  like  to 
insure  his  child?  He  was  in  a  position  to  offer  him  very 
exceptional  terms  just  now  —  very  exceptional. 

Teddy  stared  at  him,  breathing  hard  through  his 
nostrils.  It  was  one  of  the  originalities  of  the  man,  a 
part  perhaps  of  his  inherited  refinement,  his  vein  of  gentle 
blood,  that  he  had  always  refused  with  stubborn  pride 
to  speculate  on  the  death  of  his  child. 

Now  he  glared  at  the  other. 

"Insure  her!"  he  said.  "And  what  good  would  that 
do  me,  Mister?" 

The  other  showed  his  broad  white  fangs,  treading  deli- 
cately.    He  was  not  sure  of  his  ground. 

"Why,  sir,  if  anything  was  to  come  to  her,  you  could 
show  her  a  little  respect.  See!  Funeral  expenses,  and  a 
nice  bit  laid  by." 

"I  see!"  said  Teddy.  "God  Almighty  takes  my  Meg 
to  his  bosom,  and  I  draw  five  quid  instead.  That's  it, 
is  it?" 


210  THE  BOYAL  ROAD 

The  insurance  agent  saw  he  had  been  on  the  wrong  tack 
and  darted  off  upon  another. 

"Or  insure  yourself!"  he  said.  "Insure  yourself  —  on 
be  —  'alf  of  the  child.  Then  if  anything  was  to  come  to 
you  —  there  you  are !  Your  wife  and  child  left  'andsomely 
off.     And  you  needn't  worry  in  your  grave." 

Teddy,  whose  hand  had  been  upon  the  door,  opened  a 
little  wider. 

"Now  you're  talkin',"  he  said.  "What  can  I  insure 
for?" 

"What  you  like.  Fifty  pound.  Hundred  pound. 
Only  if  you  insure  for  the  latter  we  should  require  a  medi- 
cal certificate." 

Teddy  said  he'd  think  it  over. 

And  all  that  night  he  lay  awake  thinking  it  over. 

A  hundred  pounds  between  those  he  loved  and  the 
Abyss  if  anything  came  to  him! 

And  was  something  coming  to  him? 

He  was  not  so  good  a  workman  as  he  had  been. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  day's  work  he  flagged  desperately. 
A  kind  of  swimming  slackness  seemed  to  have  got  hold 
of  him.  His  blood  was  turning  to  water.  He  was  be- 
coming undone. 

And  the  work  was  always  being  speeded  up;  there  was 
an  ever-increasing  strain  on  the  minds  and  muscles  of  the 
workers;  and  in  the  jostle  and  hustle  of  the  modern  in- 
dustrial stream  the  weaker  vessels  cracked. 


THE  PLANK  211 

Teddy  was  one  of  them.  Leading  hand  on  a  splitting- 
machine,  his  machine  was  now  the  slowest  in  the  shop. 
The  other  three  hands  were  continually  waiting  upon  their 
leader.  And  they  didn't  like  it:  for  they  were  paid  by  the 
piece.  And  the  foreman  didn't  like  it:  for  he  was  respon- 
sible for  the  total  output  of  the  shop. 

Teddy  believed  the  foreman  had  said  something  to  Mr. 
Edward,  for  Mr.  Edward  had  glanced  at  him  in  passing, 
a  curious  look  in  his  eye. 

And  he  sweated  so!  —  his  face  hot  as  fire  and  hands 
cold  as  a  dead  fish. 

The  Woodpecker  was  at  work  upon  him  again  —  in- 
sidiously destructive. 

Tap-tap !  tap-tap ! 

Rising,  he  went  to  the  window  and  stared  out  at  the 
night.  The  street  was  empty  save  for  spectral  lamp-posts. 
The  row  of  houses  opposite  crouched  uncomely  under 
misty  stars.  From  over  the  river  came  the  desolate  cry- 
ing of  a  seagull.     For  the  rest  there  was  silence. 

London  slept.  And  in  the  heart  of  it  one  man  amid 
five  millions,  his  face  glued  to  the  panes,  looked  out  and 
wondered. 

Next  evening  he  called  round  at  the  agent's  office. 

The  agent  was  ingratiating,  rose  to  greet  him,  gave 
him  his  hand,  and  revealed  a  row  of  enormous  yellow 
teeth. 


212  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  soothed  Teddy,  coaxed  him,  flattered  him,  and  made 
up  his  mind  for  him. 

"Will  you  go  and  see  our  doctor,  or  shall  he  come  and 
see  you?  "  he  asked  at  the  end  of  the  interview. 

"I'll  go  and  see  him,"  said  Teddy. 

He  had  not  told  Loo  what  he  meant  to  do,  and  did  not 
mean  to  tell  her. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  the  agent. 

Next  day  Teddy  went  round  to  see  the  doctor. 

Before  entering  he  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
house,  clearing  his  throat  and  tubes.  He  squared  his 
shoulders  and  breathed  deep.  He  proposed  to  give 
himself  every  chance.  If  there  was  anything  wrong 
with  him  it  was  just  as  well  the  doctor  should  not  find 
it  out. 

Then  he  entered. 

The  doctor  spent  a  long  time  over  his  chest. 

"Any  weakness  anywhere?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Teddy  gaily.  "Only  in  me  'ead, 
through  being  a  bit  light-hearted." 

"Catch  a  bit  of  cold  sometimes  in  the  winter?" 
solicitously. 

"Yes,  sometimes,  sir.  .  .  .  Get  sweaty,  you  know, 
at  the  work.  And  then  comin'  out  in  the  cold  night  air 
and  that." 

"Got  one  now? 

"Just  a  bit  of  a  sniffle  like,  sir." 


THE  PLANK  213 

The  doctor  tapped  him  back  and  front,  leaned  his  ear 
affectionately  against  the  other's  chest,  and  between  his 
shoulders,  bid  him  breathe  deep,  and  was  very  encourag- 
ing and  sympathetic. 

"There,  that's  all,"  he  said  at  last. 

A  little  bald-headed  man,  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  and  looked  at  the  other  with  the  small  keen  eyes  of  the 
bird  of  prey  curiously  glittering. 

"All  right,  ain't  it?"  said  Teddy  anxiously. 

"You'll  hear  from  the  company,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"I'll  report  to  them." 

Slowly  he  rose  upon  his  toes  and  dropped  on  his  heels 
again.  Teddy  went  out  into  the  hall.  The  doctor  fol- 
lowed him. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  opened  the  door,  and  gave  the 
other  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  sir,"  said  Teddy,  surprised  and  flattered, 
and  went  down  the  steps. 

The  door  behind  him  did  not  bang. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  looked  round. 

The  door  was  still  ajar,  and  through  the  crack  he  could 
see  the  doctor's  eyes  following  him. 

Whether  they  were  laughing  or  not,  he  was  not  sure. 

Teddy  waited  for  three  days  and  no  news  came  from 
the  insurance  company.  On  the  fourth  evening  he  went 
round  to  the  office. 


214  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  agent,  tilting  back  in  his  chair  by  the  gas-stove, 
barely  looked  up  from  his  paper. 

He  shook  his  head  and  resumed  his  reading. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"What?"  said  Teddy. 

"No  good  to  us,"  said  the  agent,  picking  his  teeth  and 
tilting  himself. 

Teddy  gasped. 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  then?" 

"Go  around  and  see  your  own  doctor,  my  good  man," 
snapped  the  agent. 

Teddy  turned  white. 

"  My  man,  is  it?  "  he  said.    "  It  was  Sir  yesterday." 


xxin 

THE  ROT 

Doctor  English  stood  at  the  window  of  his  study  and 
looked  out;  and  it  was  clear  that  he  was  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  come  down  the  street. 

He  had  passed  a  heavy  and  disheartening  day  at  his 
sisyphean  labour  of  atoning  for  the  sins  of  Society.  That 
morning  he  had  watched  at  the  bedside  of  an  old  woman 
dying  of  neglect  hastened  by  starvation;  in  the  afternoon 
he  had  driven  to  the  lying-in  hospital  a  little  girl  in  her 
early  teens;  and  later  had  been  called  in  to  the  house  of  a 
deaf-mute  who  had  been  brutally  abusing  the  children 
he  should  never  have  begotten. 

It  was  an  evening  in  early  April  and  the  rain  was  falling. 
The  house  loomed  mysterious  through  a  gray  bloom.  In 
his  tiny  strip  of  garden  the  black  twigs  of  a  leprous- 
patched  sycamore  were  radiant  with  silver  drops.  And 
the  sweet,  thin  song  of  a  hedge-sparrow  issued  from  the 
tree. 

The  doctor's  face  of  the  bearded  pioneer  was  wistful  in 
the  dusk  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  street  a  yellow  light  bloomed 

215 


216  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

suddenly  in  the  dusk.  Then  another  blurted  out  —  this 
one  nearer.  Soon  all  down  the  street  there  was  a  dotted 
chain  of  lights  strung  on  high.  Now  the  swift  and  shining 
figure  of  the  lamplighter  was  seen,  hustling  along,  his  pole 
over  his  shoulder.  As  he  came  to  each  grim  spectral  lamp 
he  touched  it  with  his  magic  wand,  and  the  dead  thing 
leapt  into  life,  and  glowed  mysterious  and  wonderful  in 
the  gloom. 

Doctor  English  watched  him  come  and  go  with  satis- 
faction in  his  face. 

Then  he  plunged  down  into  his  great  chair  to  brood  over 
his  gas-stove. 

A  maid  entered. 

"There's  a  man  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  announced. 

"All  right.     Show  him  into  the  surgery.     I'll  come." 

Teddy  stood  by  the  fireplace,  a  wisp  of  red-haired  man 
in  clothes  too  big  for  him. 

Doctor  English,  entering,  massive  as  a  mountain,  took 
in  his  scarecrow  patient  with  wise,  deep  eyes. 

"  Well,  Teddy,"  he  said.    "  You  don't  look  up  to  much." 

Teddy  swaggered  across  to  him  on  thin  bowed  legs. 
He  drew  fresh  fife  from  the  feel  of  the  other's  hand,  the 
light  in  his  eyes,  the  calm  in  his  voice.  That  big  man  re- 
vived in  him  a  long  dead  self.  He  became  cheery,  coura- 
geous —  something  of  the  old  cock-robin  of  a  boy,  who  had 
haunted  the  school  in  Farthing  Lane. 


THE  ROT  217 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Teddy.  "I'm  right  enough.  Only 
I  don't  seem  able  to  throw  off  me  cough.  And  yesterday 
I  was  passing  a  weighing  machine  and  so  thinks  I,  I'll 
weigh.  Found  I'd  lost  a  stone.  And  my  wife  wanted  me 
to  come  and  see  you.     Says  I've  gone  that  thin." 

"  Let's  look  at  that  old  chest,"  said  the  doctor. 

For  ten  minutes  he  stood  with  his  great  head  against 
the  other's  phantom  body,  one  hand  on  Teddy's  back, 
pressing  him  to  his  ear.  He  tapped  his  patient  back  and 
front:  he  sounded  him. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  fire. 

"Button  up  your  shirt,"  he  said. 

His  back  was  to  the  other  as  he  warmed  his  hands  at 
the  blaze. 

"Let's  see!  How  long  is  it  since  you  had  that  go  of 
pleurisy?" 

"A  year  last  March,  sir." 

There  was  a  lengthy  pause. 

"How  are  things  going  at  the  works?" 

"Why,  sir,  mighty  dicky.  They  keep  running  on  and 
that's  all  they  do  do." 

Teddy  buttoned  up  his  shirt,  put  on  his  coat,  and  stared 
at  the  back  of  the  doctor's  head.  He  stood  pale,  haggard, 
and  quivering,  trying  to  be  collected  in  the  presence  of  this 
man  he  loved. 

It  was  an  age  before  the  doctor  turned.  His  beard  was 
on  his  chest,  and  his  eyes  grave. 


218  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  take  six  months 
off." 

A  gleam  of  the  old  Teddy  lit  the  little  cockney's  blue 
eyes. 

"What!  and  gow  a  trip  to  Egypt  in  me  yacht!"  he 
crowed. 

The  doctor  did  not  smile. 

"If  I  could  get  you  into  a  hospital  or  home,  would  you 
go?" 

Teddy  became  ghastly  grave.    He  shook  his  head. 

"  Can't  do  it,  sir.  I'd  drop  out.  Ye  see  'tain't  only  me. 
There's  Meg  and  the  Missus  —  and  I've  only  got  the 
one  job.  I  been  in  leather  all  my  life.  If  I  was  to  lose 
that  I'd  be  done.  I  can't  turn  my  hand  to  anything. 
'Tain't  as  though  I  was  a  labourer,  as  the  saying  is." 

He  tied  his  muffler  about  his  throat. 

"I'll  come  and  look  you  up  sometimes,"  said  the  doctor 
at  the  door.  "Keep  your  windows  open  day  and  night. 
And  drink  as  much  milk  as  you  can  —  boiled" 

He  gave  him  certain  directions  about  his  sputum,  es- 
corted him  to  the  door,  and  watched  him  down  the  steps. 

Teddy  danced  slowly  down  them  with  a  figment  of  the 
old  swagger.  At  the  bottom  he  turned  and  came  dully 
back  to  the  doctor  standing  at  the  top. 

" Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  whispered  huskily.     " Is  it  that? " 

The  doctor  eyed  him  steadily  in  the  night.  "It  might 
turn  to  it  if  you're  not  careful,"  he  said. 


THE  ROT  219 

Then  he  shut  the  door  and  turned  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Teddy  Hankey's  got  it,"  he  announced  quietly  to  his 
sister. 

In  Mudsey  it  was  unnecessary  to  specify  what  it  was. 

The  practical  woman  swung  round  in  her  hard  chair. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  sit  and  watch  the  man  rot,"  said  the  doctor. 
"And  six  months  hence  when  he's  incurable  take  him  in 
hand." 

The  lady  said, 

"Brompton." 

"Won't  go,"  replied  her  brother.  "Won't  hear  of  it. 
And  I  don't  blame  him." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

"There's  only  one  thing  we  can  do,"  he  said  at  length. 
"We  must  save  the  child." 

All  the  woman  in  the  other  rallied  to  his  thought.  She 
did  not,  like  her  brother,  dream  of  the  Future  and  see  Man 
little  by  little  entering  on  his  heritage  of  Heaven  on  Earth. 
What  she  saw  was  a  little  roundabout  girl  in  a  sheep- 
skin jacket  who  must  be  kept  happy  and  healthy  at 
all  costs. 

"The  child  mustn't  sleep  in  the  same  room  —  if  they've 
got  another,"  said  the  doctor. 

"They  have,"  replied  Miss  English.  "I'll  go  around 
and  see  about  it  to-morrow." 


220  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

And  she  went. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Hankey,  how's  Meg?"  she  began. 

"She's  very  well,  Miss." 

Loo  turned  from  the  washtub,  her  arms  deep  in  soap. 
She  was  no  longer  a  lady  of  leisure;  she  was  a  work- woman 
—  and  looked  it.  Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  her  husband 
she  was  struggling  in  grim  battle  against  the  world.  Loo 
was  making  money.  Her  red  elbows,  rather  coarse, 
showed  it.  Since  Meg  had  gone  to  school  she  had  taken 
in  washing. 

"Teddy  was  seeing  the  doctor  last  night,"  continued 
Miss  English. 

"Yes,  Miss.      He  didn't  say  much  when  he  got  home." 

She  eyed  the  other  anxiously,  drying  her  arms. 

"It's  this  cough,"  said  Miss  English.  "The  doctor's 
afraid  the  child  '11  catch  it.     Where  does  she  sleep?" 

"With  us,  Miss." 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  put  her  in  the 
back  room  for  a  bit?  We  don't  want  the  child  to  get  her 
father's  cold." 

The  two  women  stared  at  each  other.  Then  Loo  went 
suddenly  white. 

"Very  well,  Miss,"  she  said. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  English  and  marched  upstairs. 
The  man  of  action  in  her  always  took  the  moment  on 
the  wing. 

"I'm  afraid  Teddy  may  not  like  it,"  murmured  the 


THE  ROT  221 

lady  in  the  quiet  voice  of  a  conspirator  as  together  they 
ran  the  little  cot  from  room  to  room. 

"  No,  Miss,"  said  Loo.  "  But  it's  got  to  be." 
Her  voice  was  strangely  hard  and  determined.  Miss 
English  had  always  been  right  in  attributing  to  her  charac- 
ter —  the  will  to  act  when  there  was  the  need.  And  now 
in  a  second  she  had  made  a  momentous  decision  —  the 
decision  many  women  are  compelled  at  one  time  or  another 
to  make.  She  had  been  called  upon  to  choose  between 
her  child  and  the  father  of  her  child.  Swiftly  and  with- 
out a  falter  she  had  made  her  choice.  And  with  the  choice 
she  had  become  a  different  woman  —  sterner,  harder,  more 
masterful.  The  long  mute  struggle  between  her  husband 
and  herself  was  over.  She  meant  to  rule,  because  she  must. 
Life,  which  is  Love,  required  it  of  her. 

When  Teddy  returned  that  night,  Loo  was  at  the  sink. 
She  did  not  look  round;  and  she  heard  him  tramp  upstairs. 

"'Ellow!"  he  said,  and  walked  across  the  landing  to  the 
little  back  room.  Then  he  tramped  downstairs  again. 
The  eyes  of  husband  and  wife  met.  There  was  resist- 
ance in  his;  determination  in  hers  —  cold,  calm,  invinci- 
ble. For  perhaps  a  minute  the  conflict  went  on  between 
them  in  the  air.  Then  he  surrendered,  and  the  resist- 
ance died  out  of  his  face. 

"All  right,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  know,"  and  passed 
out  into  the  street. 


XXIV 
SPUN  OFF 

A  sword  had  pierced  Teddy's  heart. 

In  the  great  and  glorious  days  of  old  he  and  Loo  had 
stood  together  against  the  world,  and  nothing  mattered. 
Now  that  was  no  longer  so.  Loo  was  changed  to  him. 
She  was  not  his,  and  his  only,  as  she  once  had  been. 
There  was  something  else  in  her  life;  something  that 
divided  her  from  him,  and  even  set  her  against  him. 

He  had  felt  it  coming  for  long  —  a  cloud  on  the  horizon 
no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  always  looming  larger  in  his 
life;  and  he  had  resisted  it  furiously. 

The  Woodpecker  was  at  work  on  him,  unceasing  and 
unseen,  down  in  the  soft  deeps  of  his  heart. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

There  was  no  sound;  but  he  could  feel  the  peck  of  the 
remorseless  beak,  regular  as  a  pulse. 

Body  and  soul  were  being  eaten  away. 

Teddy,  deserted  by  the  world,  and  uncertain  of  his 
home,  was  becoming  a  desperately  lonely  man.  His  wife 
was  turning  against  him :  that  was  how  the  situation  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  diseased  and  isolated  mind. 

222 


SPUN  OFF  223 

Doctor  English  noticed  a  change  in  Loo,  too,  and  said 
that  she  was  growing  to  look  quite  fierce. 

"Perhaps  she's  got  to  be,  poor  thing,"  said  Miss  Eng- 
lish. 

The  softest  spot  in  her  not  unduly  soft  heart  was  kept 
for  the  hundreds  of  women  all  about  her  battling  against 
odds  to  keep  a  home  together,  a  man  respectable,  children 
innocent  and  honest.  And  of  those  not  the  least  valiant 
as  she  knew  was  Loo  Hankey,  who  stood  in  brown  jersey, 
her  sleeves  rolled  up,  over  the  washtub,  fighting  against 
the  world  on  behalf  of  her  husband,  her  home,  and  most  of 
all  her  child. 

Doctor  English  looked  in  on  her  one  day. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Hankey,  how's  Meg?"  he  asked. 

"She's  very  well,  sir." 

He  had  not  seen  her  for  long  and  noticed  the  change 
that  had  come  over  her.  Her  voice  was  hoarse,  her 
mouth  set.  No  longer  soft  and  round,  she  was  haggard 
and  almost  hard;  and  there  was  a  look  of  strain  in  her  eyes. 

"Does  her  father  fondle  the  child  much?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.    She's  hardly  ever  off  his  knee." 

"I  wouldn't  let  her  do  that,"  said  the  doctor  quietly. 

Loo  said  nothing,  compressing  her  lips. 

She  asked  no  questions.     It  was  unnecessary. 

That  evening  when  Teddy  came  home,  he  called  Meg 
to  him. 


224  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  child  didn't  go. 

"Won't  you  come  to  daddy  then?"  he  coaxed. 

Meg  began  to  cry,  and  then  ran  out  into  the  street. 

Teddy  looked  at  Loo.  Then  he  understood.  Some- 
thing had  passed  between  mother  and  child.  A  sudden 
anger  leapt  in  his  heart.     He  stood  up. 

"That's    you,    you ?"he    trembled,    white    and 

flashing. 

She  met  him  with  calm,  determined  eyes. 

"That's  the  first  time  ever  you  called  me,  Ted,"  she 
said  quietly. 

"Won't  be  the  last,  I'll  lay,"  he  laughed. 

She  did  not  weep  —  as  she  might  have  done  a  year  or 
two  back;  nor  did  he  strike  her.  She  was  his  master,  and 
he  knew  it.  Morally  she  overpowered  him.  He  was 
struggling  as  a  naughty  boy  struggles  with  his  mother. 

"Set  her  against  me!"  he  trembled.  "Might  leave  me 
the  child,  if  you  turn  against  me  yourself." 

"Just  while  you've  got  your  cough  Ted,"  answered  Loo 
gently. 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  could  cough  myself  into  hell  —  out 
of  this,"  he  answered.  "All  turn  on  you  when  you're 
going  down.  It's  not  only  the  chaps  in  the  shop.  I've 
sweated  to  the  bone  to  keep  a  roof  over  you,  and  you're 
the  first  to  round  on  me.  One  thing!  —  it  won't  last 
much  longer." 

He  went  out  without  his  tea. 


SPUN  OFF  225 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

Teddy  was  right. 

It  wouldn't  last  much  longer. 

The  Wheel  was  spinning,  spinning,  and  Teddy's  hold 
on  it  was  loosening.  He  could  no  longer  do  his  work. 
But  for  Mr.  Edward's  intervention  he  would  have  been 
sacked  months  ago  —  and  he  knew  it.  He  sweated  and 
panted  over  work  the  other  men  did  easily. 

Once  toward  the  end  of  a  day  he  stopped  the  machine 
for  which  he  was  responsible  and  leaned  his  forehead  on 
the  bar  of  it. 

His  three  mates  waited  restlessly  on  their  leading  hand. 

He  did  not  stir,  his  forehead  leaning  on  the  bar,  his 
eyes  down. 

The  foreman  came  along  in  his  white  smock. 

"What!  —  can't  you  get  on  with  it,  Hankey?"  he  said. 

Teddy  did  not  lift  his  head,  did  not  answer. 

Mr.  Edward  strolled  up. 

"Let  him  be,"  he  said  quietly,  and  added  to  the  three 
waiting  hands.  "You'd  better  go  home.  He  won't  be 
fit  for  anything  more  to-day."  They  put  on  their  coats 
and  departed,  muttering. 

A  few  days  later  Teddy  collapsed  upon  the  floor  at 
midday. 

They  took  him  up  and  propped  him  against  a  pile  of 
split  leathers. 


226  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  lolled  there  with  bleak  blue  eyes,  refusing  the  brandy 
offered  him. 

"  'Tain't  that,"  he  said.     "  Let  me  be.     I'll  go  on  soon." 

Later  he  rose,  took  off  his  apron,  and  rolled  it  up. 

"I  give  up,  sir,"  he  said  quietly  to  the  foreman.  "It's 
too  much  for  me.     I  can't  manage  no  more." 

"Very  well,  Hankey,"  said  the  foreman  kindly.  "You 
look  as  if  you  want  a  bit  of  a  holiday." 

He  went  out,  passing  for  the  last  time  through  the  lime- 
pits  and  amidst  the  heavy-clogged  fleshers  and  unhairers 
busy  at  their  ghastly  work. 

In  the  yard  Mr.  Edward  was  standing. 

Teddy  went  across  to  him. 

"Good-bye,  sir,"  he  said.     "Thank  you." 

The  young  man  gave  him  his  hand. 

"What!  —  are  you  leaving  us?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Teddy,  calm  and  white. 

"Trying  another  job." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Teddy.     "I'm  done." 

The  other's  face  clouded. 

"The  work  too  much  for  you?" 

"No,  sir.     'Tain't  the  work,"  said  Teddy.     "It's  me." 

The  young  man's  eyes  dwelt  on  the  other  a  thought 
furtively,  and  marked  the  mysterious  beauty  in  his  face. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.     "I  hope  you'll  soon  be  better." 

"Good-bye,  sir,"  said  Teddy.  "Thank  you"  and 
passed  on. 


SPUN  OFF  227 

Mr.  Edward's  eyes  followed  the  thin  figure  down  the 
narrow  yard.  He  knew  the  man  by  sight  and  had  often 
noticed  him,  especially  of  late  —  that  haggard,  blue-eyed, 
red-haired  wisp  of  a  creature,  but  he  didn't  know  what  his 
name  was. 

Under  the  archway  Teddy  peeped  into  the  porter's  hut. 

Big  Belly  sat  dumped  within. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Sugar,"  he  said.     "Shake  'ands." 

The  other  rolled  off  his  stool. 

"What,  'Ankey!"  he  said,  concerned.  "You  ain't 
leavin'  us." 

"That's  right.    I'm  off." 

"Whereto?" 

"Kingdom  Come,"  said  Teddy,  and  passed  out  of  the 
archway  into  the  cold,  hard  light  of  a  January  day. 


XXV 

TAP-TAP 

He  walked  quietly  down  the  street,  his  apron  on  his 
shoulder. 

Meg  was  playing  in  the  street,  but  he  passed  her  by 
without  a  word. 

Loo  met  him  in  the  door. 

"  Turned  off?  "  she  said. 

"Yes." 

It  was  not  true,  but  it  was  near  enough. 

Loo  was  not  surprised,  not  even  deeply  moved.  She 
had  expected  it  too  long. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  she  said  kindly.  "You  ain't  fit 
for  work.     You're  a  bag  of  bones." 

Teddy  went  indoors  and  took  off  his  boots. 

That  evening  Loo  took  the  teapot  with  the  broken 
spout  from  the  cupboard  and  dug  out  the  hoard  that 
lay  beneath  the  tea. 

It  amounted  to  twenty  pounds  odd. 

"  Come!  "  said  Loo.  "  Not  so  bad.  Twenty  pound 
is  twenty  pound." 

228 


TAP-TAP  229 

"Yes,"  said  Teddy.      "And  you  with  a  kid  comin\ 
When  are  you  due?  " 

"April,  if  I'm  right/'  said  Loo  simply.      "You  must 
go  on  your  club." 

Next  day  he  went  round  to  see  the  club  doctor. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  may  go  on  your  club  all  right,"  said  that 
functionary  cheerfully  after  a  cursory  examination. 

He  gave  his  patient  a  bottle  of  medicine  and  told  him 
he  would  come  round  and  see  him. 

Teddy  took  the  bottle  of  medicine  home  and  tasted  it 
on  the  way.  It  was  dark-coloured  and  highly  flavoured 
with  peppermint.  He  liked  it;  and  because  he  liked  it, 
he  doubted  its  efficacy.  Therefore  he  turned  into  a  che- 
mist's shop  and  bought  a  bottle  of  somebody's  famous 
lung-tonic,  highly  recommended  by  the  chemist,  who  made 
100  per  cent,  on  each  bottle  sold. 

The  famous  lung-tonic  fulfilled  all  the  conditions  of  a 
successful  patent  medicine.  It  was  expensive,  and  it 
smelt  strong.  The  chemist  told  Teddy  that  a  dozen 
bottles,  more  or  less,  should  make  a  new  man  of  him. 
Teddy  tasted  that  too.  It  was  thick  and  creamy  and 
took  some  swallowing;  and  Teddy  felt  there  was  a  power 
in  it.  He  returned  to  Loo  with  a  bottle  in  each  pocket, 
and  some  hope  in  his  heart. 

Loo  waited  at  home  rather  anxiously  to  know  if  he  had 
been  allowed  on  his  club. 

"Is  that  right?"  she  asked. 


230  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"That's  right  enough,"  he  answered. 

"Come!"  said  Loo  cheerfully.  "We  ain't  done  yet. 
You  done  your  bit.     Now  see  what  I  can  do." 

"What  can  you  do?  "  croaked  Teddy.  Nothing  seemed 
very  real  to  him  just  now.  "  Work !  Nobody  '11  take  you. 
Kid  coming  April.     What  can  you  do?" 

"Let  lodgings,  to  be  sure." 

"I  don't  want  no  lodger  in  my  We,"  said  Teddy,  his 
old  fastidiousness  reasserting  itself. 

"Go  on,"  said  Loo  with  quiet  determination.  "He 
won't  hurt  you." 

She  kept  him  rather  strictly  at  home  in  those  first  days 
till  it  was  dusk.  She  didn't  wish  him  to  be  seen  at  street 
corners.  That  meant  no  tick,  or  short  tick.  And  Loo 
was  becoming  wary  as  a  vixen.  There  were  eyes  every- 
where, and  eyes  were  enemies.  She  was  no  longer  open 
and  above-board:  she  could  not  afford  to  be.  The  world 
was  against  her;  aud  she  had  to  meet  the  world  with  its 
pwn  weapon  —  cunning. 

So  she  went  round  herself  to  Levi,  the  second-hand 
furniture  man,  by  night.  And  by  night  he  came  round 
and  inspected  the  furniture  in  her  parlour. 

For  it  he  offered  her  a  bed,  wash-hand-stand,  and  cheap 
chest  of  drawers. 

"We  give  £4—15-0  for  the  burrow  alone,"  said  Loo. 

"Daresay,"  replied  the  Jew,  picking  his  teeth.  "It's 
only  the  front's  mahogany.     All  the  rest's  deal  painted." 


TAP-TAP  231 

M  We  got  it  off  of  you,"  said  Loo. 

The  Jew  folded  his  hands  on  his  paunch  and  lifted  his 
face  solemnly  to  the  light. 

"Yes  or  no,"  he  said. 

She  accepted  his  offer,  and  asked  him  to  send  round 
after  dark.     The  long-nosed  Jew  smiled  secretively. 

"I  know,"  he  said. 

He  sent  round  next  night  and  took  away  the  bureau, 
the  glass-case  full  of  birds  of  paradise,  a  knickknack  table 
and  some  chairs  —  things  the  young  pair  had  sallied  out 
arm  in  arm  to  buy  in  the  first  glow  of  their  married  life, 
and  which  for  seven  years  had  furnished  or  encumbered 
their  front-room. 

Teddy  in  his  shirt-sleeves  watched  thin-necked  from  the 
kitchen. 

Every  now  and  then  he  made  a  little  noise. 

Whether  it  was  a  snort  or  a  laugh,  it  was  hard  to  say 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

The  parlour  became  a  bedroom;  and  in  the  window  now 
appeared  a  card: 

Bed  Sitting-room  to  Let. 
Foe  a  Respectable  Man. 

Loo  was  lucky  and  got  a  lodger  in  a  week.  He  was  a 
foreman  compositor  earning  good  money. 


232  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Mr.  Johns  was  fussy:  fussy  about  his  health,  fussy 
about  his  food,  fussy  with  the  fussiness  of  the  middle- 
aged  bachelor  who  has  saved  money  and  means  to 
save  more. 

He  made  no  trouble  about  paying  and  Loo's  heart 
lifted. 

Miss  English,  coming  round  to  inquire  after  Teddy, 
found  the  old  Loo  smiling  at  her. 

"He's  on  his  club,  Miss,"  said  Loo  in  answer  to  the 
other's  inquiry. 

"Yes;  and  what "  Miss  English  began,  and  stopped 

herself  with  a  jerk. 

She  was  going  to  ask  what  his  sick  club  gave  him  and 
for  how  long  as  compared  with  the  Friendly  Society  he  had 
not  joined  at  her  instigation  years  ago. 

Then  she  refrained  with  an  effort  from  pointing  the 
moral.  She  was  suffering  just  now  herself,  and  her  pain 
made  her  unusually  tender.  The  morning's  post  had 
brought  news  that  her  old  mother  abroad  was  ailing. 

Loo  now  faced  the  Monday  morning  young  man  when 
he  came  for  the  rent  with  her  old  courage. 

"That's  my  lodger,"  she  said  loftily.  "He's  foreman 
compositor  at  the  Albion  works." 

"Yes;  I  see  you  got  your  card  down,"  answered  the 
other,  signing  the  book. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "He's  come  to  stay." 

She  did  her  lodger's  washing,  mended  his  socks,  made 


TAP-TAP  233 

him  comfortable,  and  kept  Meg  quiet;  for  Mr.  Johns  did 
did  not  care  for  children. 

He  was  a  man  of  few  words  and  simple.  Loo  liked  him; 
Teddy  didn't  care  for  him. 

Then  one  evening  as  Mr.  Johns  was  walking  home  a 
woman  in  the  Row  standing  in  the  door  of  a  house  that 
had  in  its  window  a  card  "Bedroom  to  Let,"  plucked 
stealthily  at  his  arm  as  he  passed.  He  paused.  The 
woman  nodded  significantly  at  Teddy,  who  was  hunting 
down  the  street  in  the  dusk. 

"Lodging  with  the  'Ankeys,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes." 

She  pointed  mysteriously  at  Teddy's  back. 

"You  know?" 

"What?" 

She  tapped  her  chest  and  coughed. 

Her  own  husband  had  been  unemployed  for  weeks  and 
seemed  likely  to  remain  so.  She  had  dropped  two  weeks' 
rent,  and  the  company  was  already  pressing  her.  And 
she  had  five  children. 

That  evening  Mr.  Johns  told  Loo  that  he  was  going  at 
the  end  of  the  week. 

Loo  turned  white. 

"Ain't  I  made  you  comfortable  then,  Mr.  Johns?" 

"Yes,  you  made  me  very  comfortable,"  answered  the 
man.     "' Tain' t  that." 

"What  is  it?" 


234  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  pointed  sheepishly  to  the  kitchen. 

"His  cough,"  he  said.     "Keeps  me  awake  at  night." 

He  went  on  Saturday  and  took  up  his  abode  with  the 
woman  up  the  street. 

Loo  stood  in  the  door  and  challenged  her  enemy  furi- 
ously. 

"And  so  you  got  my  lodger  away  from  me,  Mrs.  Lar- 
kin!"  she  called  harshly. 

Doctor  English,  passing  on  his  bicycle,  did  not  recognize 
her. 

Mrs.  Larkin  was  lean  and  tough  as  leather  —  an  old 
soldier  with  nearly  fifty  years'  campaigning  behind  her. 
If  she  had  a  conscience,  it  experienced  no  qualms. 

"There's  no  sickness* in  my  house,"  she  answered,  tran- 
quil in  her  triumph.  "And  he's  very  particular  is  Mr. 
Johns." 

"And  may  you  never  'ave  no  sickness  in  your  house  — 
that's  all  I  pray,"  cried  Loo  quivering. 

"I  buried  four,"  said  the  other  enigmatically.  "And 
I  got  five  still.     You've  only  the  one." 

In  her  own  view  she  had  right  on  her  side  in  the  propor- 
tion of  five  to  one. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

Loo  was  left  without  a  lodger.  The  only  money  coming 
into  the  house  now  was  Teddy's  sick-pay,  which  did  not 


TAP-TAP  235 

cover  the  rent;  and  there  were  but  three  weeks  more  of 
that. 

That  evening  she  took  the  broken-spouted  teapot  from 
its  hiding-place  in  the  cupboard  and  counted  her  hoard; 
and  as  she  did  so  her  confidence  returned. 

There  was  plenty  there  to  see  her  through  her  trouble 
and  carry  them  well  on  into  the  summer. 

Teddy  sat  by  uneasily  as  she  told  out  the  gold. 

Suddenly  she  turned  on  him. 

"It's  two  pound  short !"  she  cried  fiercely.  "Where 
is  it?" 

Teddy  sniggered  feebly. 

"I  swallowed  it,"  he  said,  and  pointed  to  the  rows  of 
empty  bottles  of  lung-tonic  on  the  mantelpiece.  "Bet- 
ter'n  beer,"  he  added  apologetically. 

The  club  doctor  had  said  that  he  would  visit  Teddy, 
but  he  had  not  come;  or  was  it  to  be  wondered  at,  seeing 
that  the  club  paid  him  at  the  rate  of  4d.  a  visit.  And 
Teddy  had  made  up  for  the  omision  by  a  debauch  on 
patent  medicines,  taking  them  promiscuously  and  often. 
At  first  his  faith  in  them,  born  of  their  faith  in  them- 
selves, and  backed  by  the  chemist's  consummate  confi- 
dence, had  lit  his  night  with  a  gleam  of  hope;  but  that  had 
soon  passed. 

"I  shan't  take  no  more,"  he  said. 

"That  you  won't!"  cried  Loo  almost  brutally.  "Quack- 
eries!—  do  ye  no  good." 


236  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"You  wouldn't  care  if  it  did,"  said  Teddy  quietly. 
"  Only  so  long  as  you  was  all  right." 

Loo's  lips  pressed  thin. 

"  Never  mind  about  me,"  she  said,  dead- white.  "  What 
about  Meg  —  and  the  kid  I'm  carryin'?" 

"Blast  the  lot  o'  you,"  said  Teddy,  very  still. 

He  was  like  that  now  —  at  times. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 

That  evening  when  he  went  out,  Loo  hid  the  teapot  on 
a  loose  brick  up  the  chimney. 

The  card  went  up  in  the  window  again. 

For  a  time  Loo  did  not  let.  It  was  known  now  what 
Teddy's  trouble  was;  and  the  better  class  of  lodger  went 
elsewhere.     One  or  two  applications  she  refused. 

Once  get  a  man  into  the  house,  you  may  find  it  hard  to 
get  him  out; and  he  may  live  on  you, instead  of  you  on  him. 

Hard  put  to  it,  she  accepted  at  last  a  man  of  whom 
somehow  she  was  suspicious. 

He  was  a  different  type  of  man  to  the  last.  Mr.  Low- 
enthal  was  young  and  flashy,  and  said  he  was  a  commercial 
traveller  in  jewellery.  And  certainly  there  was  a  profusion 
of  rings  upon  his  fingers.  He  was  tall  and  dark,  with  a 
touch  of  the  Semitic  about  him.  His  manners  were  beauti- 
ful, his  moustache  waxed,  his  hair  sleek.     He  made  a  great 


TAP-TAP  237 

deal  of  Meg,  who  didn't  like  him,  though  she  liked  the 
sweets  he  gave  her.  He  said  Thanks  instead  of  Thank  you, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Teddy  said  he  was  gentlemanly,  and  hobnobbed  with 
him.  Loo  didn't  like  him  so  much.  He  reminded  her  of 
Swiney.  And  like  Swiney  he  was  a  great  Socialist,  but 
unlike  Swiney  an  idealist  and  a  dreamer.  And  of  evenings 
he  would  discourse  with  eloquence  on  the  Brotherhood  of 
Man,  Universal  Peace,  and  the  Federation  of  the  World. 

Teddy  called  him  Steenie. 

When  Teddy  was  out  Steenie  was  very  fond  of  coming 
into  the  kitchen — too  fond,  Loo  thought,  and  too  friendly, 
but  the  man  paid  his  rent. 

One  day  she  heard  him  behind  her  and  turned. 

"'Ullo,  little  girl,"  he  said  softly. 

She  looked  up.  He  was  standing  in  the  door,  tall  and 
dark  and  smiling.  His  face  was  tilted;  and  there  was  a 
meretricious  light  on  it  and  in  his  red-hot  eyes. 

"He's  gone  out  for  the  afternoon,  ain't  he?" 

"Who?" 

"Old  Huskey." 

He  sauntered  toward  her. 

"I've  locked  the  door,"  he  said.  "Are  you  for  a  bit  of 
fun?" 

Consciously  or  unconsciously  she  put  her  hand  on  a 
boiling  saucepan. 

He  showed  his  teeth,  hissed  slightly,  and  withdrew  into 


238  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

his  room  with  a  smile  and  a  little  bow.  Mr.  Lowenthal 
was  always  very  much  the  gentleman. 

His  room  was  between  Loo  and  the  street.  She  crept 
upstairs  into  her  bedroom  and  locked  the  door. 

Then  she  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  gasped. 

In  the  room  beneath  she  could  hear  Lowenthal  stirring. 
The  street-door  shut  quietly.  Loo  did  not  leave  her  room 
till  she  heard  Teddy  enter.  Then  she  crept  downstairs 
in  pitiful  mood,  for  the  first  time  for  months  seeking  his 
strength  of  a  man  to  succour  her  failing  womanhood. 

Teddy  was  in  the  lodger's  room  looking  round. 

"  Lowenthal  done  a  guy ! "  he  said.     "  Where's  his  bag?  " 

Loo  gasped  and  rushed  for  the  chimney. 

"It's  gone!"  she  screamed. 

"What's  gone?"  asked  Teddy  harshly. 

"The  coin." 

She  collapsed  upon  a  chair  and  flung  her  apron  over  her 
head. 

"We're  done,"  she  sobbed. 

Teddy  took  command  ruthlessly. 

"Where  was  it?    You  'id  it  from  me?" 

"Up  the  chimney." 

He  searched  and  swore,  and  swore  and  searched,  show- 
ing no  mercy.  This  plank  that  he  had  made  with  so 
much  labour  to  stand  between  him  and  his  and  the  Abyss 
had  been  snatched  from  beneath  their  feet.  And  she  was 
responsible. 


TAP-TAP 

"This  comes  o'  lodgers,"  he  muttered.  "This  is  what 
I  tell  you." 

"You  liked  him  better  than  me,"  sobbed  Loo  beneath 
her  apron. 

"Now  then,"  bullied  Teddy.  "None  o'  that.  Eat 
your  own  dirt." 

She  had  trampled  on  him  when  he  was  down,  and  now 
that  it  was  her  turn  he  would  not  spare  her. 

He  shuffled  round  to  the  police-station  and  told  his 
story. 

"How  much  was  it?"  asked  the  inspector. 

"A  matter  of  fifteen  quid." 

The  inspector  shook  a  sagacious  head. 

"That's  enough  to  take  him  to  Canada.  Where  was 
it  kept?" 

"Teapot  up  the  chimney." 

"Ah,  that's  an  old  dodge.     He'd  be  up  to  that." 

He  took  down  the  particulars,  and  gave  no  hope  of 
recovery. 

Teddy  trotted  home. 

"No  more  —  lodgers,"  he  said.  "This  is  what  I  told 
you  all  along.     Only  you  would  'ave  it." 

Loo  was  still  collapsed. 

Tap-tap!  tap-tap! 


XXVI 
THE  BRINK  OF  THE  ABYSS 

When  Loo  came  to  herself  she  found  the  parlour 
stripped  of  all  furniture  save  the  pictures  on  the  wall  and 
the  ornaments  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

Bed,  chest  of  drawers,  and  wash-hand-stand  were 
gone. 

In  the  middle  of  the  bare  floor  stood  Meg  and 
laughed. 

"Ain't  it  funny,  mum?"  she  said. 

Loo  swept  the  child  up  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her 
passionately. 

"Here's  the  rent,"  said  Teddy  firmly,  and  handed  her 
the  money.     "I  cleared  that." 

She  took  it  quietly,  saying  nothing.  As  yet  she  had  not 
resumed  mastery. 

"How  long  does  your  club  run  on? "  she  asked. 

"I'm  out,"  Teddy  replied.     "When  are  you  due?" 

"Six  weeks." 

She  sat  down  to  work  out  the  situation. 

"If  we  can  hold  on  till  I'm  through  my  trouble,"  was 
her  prevailing  thought. 

240 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  ABYSS  241 

That  afternoon  she  went  round  to  see  Miss  English,  the 
woman  of  resource,  who  could  help  her  if  anybody  could. 

As  she  came  down  the  street  she  saw  a  solid  brown  figure 
plunging  into  a  cab.  Then  the  cab  with  its  dowdy  black 
back  rolled  away.  And  the  cab  was  laden  high  with 
luggage. 

The  maid  was  still  standing  on  the  steps  looking  after 
it  as  Loo  came  up. 

Bad  news  had  come  by  telegram  that  morning.  Old 
Mrs.  English  was  worse  —  dying,  the  maid  understood. 
Miss  English  had  to  go  at  once,  and  the  doctor  would  fol- 
low as  soon  as  he  could  get  away. 

Loo  walked  home.  On  her  way  she  turned  into  Levi's 
and  bought  a  large  screen  with  which  to  hide  the  nakedness 
of  the  front-room  from  the  eyes  of  the  Monday  morning 
young  man.  She  also  asked  Levi  if  he  would  let  her  have 
a  bed  and  bedroom  furniture  upon  tick.  The  Jew  shook 
his  greasy  head.  He  knew  very  well  how  things  were 
going  with  the  Hankeys. 

"Later,"  he  said,  "perhaps.  You  don't  want  a  lodger 
just  now.     You  want  to  look  after  yourself." 

Loo  went  round  to  a  laundry,  seeking  work.  A  fore- 
woman, a  motherly  creature,  ran  over  her  figure  with 
critical  eye. 

"Why,  you  must  be  almost  due,"  she  said. 

On  Monday,  after  the  rent  had  been  paid,  there  was 
five  shillings  between  her  home  and  the  Abyss. 


242  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"We  must  sell  up,"  she  said. 

"That's  it,"  said  Teddy  quietly.     "  Sell  the  -ome  up." 

The  home  of,  upon  the  whole,  an  honourable  citizen  of 
London  began  to  be  broken  up,  while  five  millions  of  men 
and  women  swarmed  round  and  did  nothing  —  in  the 
main  because  they  did  not  know. 

Teddy  stared  at  the  ruins  he  sat  among. 

"Meltin'  away  before  my  eyes,"  he  said. 

Little  by  little  everything  went  —  first  the  ornaments, 
then  the  comforts,  finally  the  necessaries.  And  it  was 
wonderful  how  little  they  fetched. 

Tables  and  chairs  followed  books  and  knickknacks,  and 
clothes  and  blankets  followed  tables  and  chairs. 

Soon  the  broken-spouted  teapot  that  once  had  clinked 
to  gold  was  abrim  with  pawn-tickets.  And  Meg  began  to 
whimper. 

The  only  money  coming  into  the  house  was  that  which 
came  from  the  pawnshop,  and  an  odd  shilling  or  two  Loo 
earned  for  a  bit  of  washing  or  minding  a  neighbour's  child. 

Somehow  she  managed  to  pay  the  rent.  But  the  Mon- 
day morning  young  man  was  suspicious  and  would  have 
peeped  round  the  screen  into  the  bare  parlour  but  that 
Loo  zealously  guarded  the  door. 

Once  he  heard  Teddy  coughing  in  the  kitchen. 

"What!  —  your  husband  out  o'  work?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Loo  swiftly,  with  the  swiftness  of  the  animal- 
mother  fighting  for  her  young.     "He's  on  his  'oliday." 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  ABYSS  243 

"Indeed,"  said  the  gentlemanly  young  man  with  the 
irony  on  which  he  prided  himself.  "I  trust  he  will  enjoy 
his  'oliday." 

When  he  was  gone  Loo  took  Teddy  sharply  to 
task. 

"What  you  want  sittin'  there  and  lettin'  him  see  you? 
Want  them  at  the  office  to  know  you're  out." 

"Don't  see  it  makes  much  difference,"  said  Teddy  dully. 
"He  knows.    They  all  know." 

"How's  he  to  know?" 

"Plenty  to  tell  him,"  said  Teddy.  "We're  down  now. 
So  they're  all  on  to  us." 

Teddy's  moods  were  various  now  as  those  of  an  April 
day.  Through  his  dulness  ran  a  streak  of  laughing  bit- 
terness; and  that  again  would  pass  before  the  mild  glow  of 
a  strange,  mysterious  love  and  hope  and  faith  that  seemed 
at  times  to  shine  through  him  like  the  sun  through  Novem- 
ber murk. 

Drowning  in  the  wide  waters  of  the  ocean-city,  Teddy 
splashed  helplessly  about.  He  paddled  to  the  Labour 
Bureau  and  applied  for  work  he  knew  he  could  not  do ;  and 
there  was  given  a  brown  ticket  and  no  hope  of  employ- 
ment. He  went  to  the  Distress  Committee  and  was  told 
that  he  might  get  a  job  on  the  roads  at  the  end  of  a  sledge- 
hammer at  some  remote  date.  He  went  away  uncom- 
plaining.    He  had  only  applied  to  save  his  face. 


244  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Seems  there  ought  to  be  some  one  to  go  to  like,"  said 
Loo. 

"There  is,"  answered  Teddy. 

"Who?" 

"Him  the  parsons  talk  of,"  replied  Teddy  with  the  quiet 
bitterlessness  that  now  distinguished  him.  "God  the 
Father.  Only  He  ain't  there.  That's  the  only  trouble 
with  God." 

"I  daresay  He  don't  know,"  suggested  Loo,  charitable 
even  to  the  Almighty. 

"Don't  know  or  don't  care.  Which?"  said  Teddy. 
"Makes  ye  and  then  lets  ye  rot.  Is  He  dead  or  is  He 
blind?  I  could  make  a  better  God  by  spittin'  on  a  lump 
of  putty  and  sittin'  on  it." 

"Go  on,"  said  Loo,  sane  even  in  her  extremity. 
"You've  been  listening  to  them  chaps  at  the  street  cor- 
ner —  Sunday  night." 

"I  ain't,"  answered  Teddy  quietly.  "I  been  listenin' 
to  no  one  —  only  meself ." 


XXVII 
THE  CRUCIFIED 

To  Teddy  the  struggle  came  to  figure  itself  as  a  battle 
in  which  the  odds  were  round  about  five  million  to  one 
against  him.  And  the  conception  afforded  him  some  sar- 
donic amusement.  He  crept  about  the  streets  and  watched 
the  passersby  with  a  curious,  ironic  smile  in  his  failing 
blue  eyes.  Men  and  women,  bustling  about  their  busi- 
ness, would  wonder  who  that  rag  of  a  red-haired  man 
might  be,  and  what  was  the  meaning  of  those  mocking 
eyes  of  his. 

Teddy  knew  now  what  they  meant  to  do  to  him,  those 
five  million  enemies  of  his  who  streamed  by  him  in  motley 
flood,  laughing  and  scolding,  worried  and  imperturbable, 
dingy  and  gay,  making  believe  the  most  of  them  that  they 
did  not  see  him.  They  meant  to  kill  him  —  by  letting  him 
alone.  There  would  be  no  cruelty  but  that  worst  cruelty 
of  all,  the  insidious  cruelty  of  neglect.  In  old  days  men 
had  been  slain  straightforwardly  with  blows  —  flogged, 
bricked,  bludgeoned  to  death,  more  or  less  swiftly.  There 
were  no  blows  to-day,  no  brutality.  Everybody  was  kind; 
everybody  was  Christian;  and  everybody  passed  by  on 

245 


246  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

the  other  side.  In  that  great  city  of  church-bells  for  ever 
ringing  there  were  no  good  Samaritans. 

So  at  least  it  seemed  to  Teddy.  In  fact  he  was  wrong. 
The  streets  of  London  swarmed  with  men  and  women 
ready  to  help;  but  there  was  no  organization  to  bring  their 
collective  energy  to  bear.  Patchwork  here;  plaster 
there;  huggermugger  everywhere. 

Once  a  lady,  seeing  this  shadow  of  a  man  lolling  hag- 
gard and  hollow  against  a  wall  at  the  street  corner  as  he 
watched  the  traffic  with  tired  blue  eyes,  turned  back  and 
offered  him  twopence. 

Teddy  shook  his  head,  his  arms  still  folded. 

"Now,"  he  said.  "That  won't  help  me."  Something 
in  her  face  arrested  him.  "'Tain't  you,"  he  said.  "It's 
all  on  'em." 

The  woman  blushed. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  muttered  shyly  and 
hurried  on. 

He  called  after  her,  and  she  turned.  He  had  unfolded 
his  arms. 

"Thank  you,  Miss,"  he  said,  and  touched  his  hat;  and 
she  was  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  smile. 

Then  they  dropped  a  week's  rent. 
"I'll  have  it  for  you  next  week,"  Loo  told  the  young 
man  at  the  door. 

"  Tis  to  be  'oped  so,"  he  answered  with  a  covert  grin. 


THE  CRUCIFIED  247 

Spurred  by  his  words,  she  dragged  round  that  afternoon 
to  see  the  vicar. 

A  young  man,  recently  appointed  to  make  up  the  head- 
way the  church  had  lost  in  Mudsey  during  the  long  reign 
of  a  scholarly  and  passive  predecessor,  he  was  overworked 
as  only  the  clergy  in  the  crowded  quarters  of  the  great 
towns  are  —  organizing,  energizing,  blowing  on  dying 
embers,  lighting  new  fires. 

The  vicar,  kind  as  he  was  keen,  knew  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Hankey,  and  detected  her  in  a  lie  about  the  attendance  of 
her  child  at  Sunday  School.  During  the  ten  days  in  which 
he  had  been  installed  he  had  received  scores  of  such  appli- 
cations from  scores  of  such  straw-hatted,  dingily  dressed 
women  with  hoarse  voices.  In  the  absence  of  Miss  English 
all  Mudsey  had  rushed  to  him.  The  new  vicar  was  young 
and  unmarried.  He  was  probably  kind  and  might  be 
innocent.  And  Miss  English  was  not  there  to  keep  guard 
over  him.  Moreover,  there  was  a  general  impression 
abroad  among  the  women  of  Mudsey  that  the  Church  of 
England  after  its  long  sleep  was  going  up,  and  the  Church 
of  Rome,  which  had  had  a  long  and  good  day,  would 
now  decline.  Therefore  there  was  a  remarkable  secession 
from  the  one  church  to  the  other  going  on.  In  the  main 
it  took  the  form  of  continual  ringings  at  the  vicarage  door 
and  unending  applications  such  as  Loo's. 

The  vicar  was  genuinely  kind  and  courteous. 

He  bade  his  visitor  sit  down,  and  when  she  went  showed 


248  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

her  to  the  door  himself.  But  he  could  do  nothing.  As 
he  opened  the  door,  he  said  shyly  that  he  hoped  she  had 
not  far  to  walk;  and  added  tentatively  that  if  she  was  very 
pressed  it  might  be  as  well  to  apply  to  the  Relieving 
Officer. 

Loo  dragged  home,  weary  in  heart  and  body.  She  was 
too  tired  for  anything,  as  she  told  Mrs.  Baxter. 

In  the  kitchen  Teddy  was  crouching  over  the  fire,  Meg 
sniffling  listlessly  in  the  corner. 

The  child  was  no  longer  chubby  and  chuckling.  She 
reflected  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  her  environ- 
ment. The  lif  e  had  died  out  of  her  as  it  had  died  out  of 
the  home.  She  was  almost  gaunt,  dirty  in  face,  dingy  in 
clothes.  The  little  sheepskin  coat,  the  imitation  ermine 
muff,  the  rabbit-skin  boa  had  long  been  pawned.  And 
she  had  ringworm. 

Loo  sat  down  heavily.    Meg  sniffled  in  the  corner. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  ye?  "  snapped  the  mother. 

"You  let  her  be,"  coughed  Teddy.  "She's  not  inter- 
ferin'  with  you." 

Loo's  eyes  flared  and  then  subsided.  She  put  her  hands 
on  her  knees. 

"I  can't  do  no  more,  Ted,"  she  said.  "See  what  a  size 
I  am!    You  must  go  round  and  see  Starkie." 

The  sea-green  mists  invaded  Teddy's  face.     He  rose. 

"I  ain't  a-goin*  there,"  he  said  quietly  and  went 
out. 


THE  CRUCIFIED  249 

He  was  in  one  of  those  mild  and  moon-like  moods  which 
gleamed  fitfully  between  the  dull  wastes  of  his  despair  and 
the  squalls  of  bitterness  that  swept  over  him. 

Quietly  he  crept  down  Mudsey  Wall  amid  the  river- 
side business  of  ranked  barges  and  warehouses  and  cranes 
and  sacks  ascending  and  descending,  and  huge  wagons 
with  hairy  horses  blocking  the  narrow  way,  and  dusty  men 
white  with  handling  grain  come  from  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth  to  fill  the  immense  maw  of  a  city  the  like  of  which 
no  man  has  ever  seen. 

Half  way  down  the  Wall  he  stayed  at  the  steps  which 
led  down  between  tall  warehouses  to  his  old  haunt  beside 
the  river.  It  was  low  tide  and  the  little  patch  of  beach 
where  he  had  courted  Loo  and  come  with  her  and  her 
baby  on  summer  days  in  their  early  married  life  was  ex- 
posed. He  descended  to  it  and  stood  on  the  wet  brown 
mud  beside  the  swift  stream. 

His  face  was  wistful  as  he  looked  out  over  the  familiar 
and  mysterious  waters. 

"Keeps  on  a-callm',"  he  muttered,  and  bending  let  it  run 
through  his  spread  fingers. 

Then  he  rose  and  gazed  across  the  smooth,  mist-swathed 
reaches,  to  the  far  shore  dim  through  mist. 

Reluctantly  he  turned  and  ascended  the  steps  into  the 
narrow  abyss  of  Mudsey  Wall. 

At  the  top  he  stayed  to  breathe  and  cough. 

Above   the   sporadic  noises   in   the  warehouses  about 


250  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

him    rose    a    sweet    humming    sound,    rhythmic    and 
regular. 

It  was  the  children  of  the  South  Lane  school  at  the  back 
singing  their  evening  hymn: 

"Abide  with  me;  fast  falls  the  eventide." 

Teddy  leaned  against  the  wall  with  his  eyes  shut. 

A  grave  voice  said  at  his  ear : 

"Hullo,  Ted?" 

He  turned  to  find  Doctor  English  at  his  side. 

"Hullo,  sir." 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Listenin'." 

"Ah,"  said  the  other.  "I  know,"  and  ran  his  arm 
through  his  friend's. 

Teddy  glanced  up.  His  swift  and  generous  impulses 
told  him  that  the  need  of  this  man  he  loved  was  greater 
than  his  own. 

"There!  they  can't  'arm  ye,  not  really,  sir,"  he  said  in 
low  voice  that  came  murmuring  mysteriously  from  the 
deeps  of  him.  "I  know  they  can't.  It's  only  a  kind  of 
pretend  like." 

"Ah,  you've  heard,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  sir.     The  old  lady." 

All  Mudsey  that  knew  Doctor  English  knew  that  his 
mother  was  dying  somewhere  abroad,  and  that  he  had  not 
as  yet  gone  to  her  because  a  lad  run  over  by  a  wagon  in  the 


THE  CRUCIFIED  251 

Wall  and  at  the  point  of  death  had  been  living  for  days  on 
his  vitality. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  the  other  with  kind  eyes. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  the  only  one,"  he  said.  "You've 
been  having  a  bad  time  too,  old  boy." 

"A  bit  rough,  sir,"  said  Teddy  deprecatingly 

"I've  been  meaning  to  come  round,  and  look  you  up," 
said  the  doctor.  "Miss  English  asked  me  to.  But  I've 
had  one  very  bad  case,  and  a  lot  of  others.  I'm  off  to- 
night." 

"'Ope  you'll  be  in  time,  sir,"  said  Teddy. 

"I  don't  doubt  that,"  answered  the  doctor.  "She 
won't  go  till  I've  been  there." 

"She'll  go  the  right  way  all  right,  I'll  lay,"  said  Teddy 
simply. 

The  doctor  laughed  as  of  old. 

"I'll  tell  her  that,"  he  said,  and  was  gone. 

Teddy  crept  quietly  on. 

Feeling  tired  he  turned  into  an  old  church,  dingy  amid 
tombstones  and  black-limed  sycamores.  The  hush  of  the 
House  of  God  comforted  him.  He  was  alone  in  there 
save  for  a  gaunt  priest  who  prowled  up  and  down  with  a 
wonderfully  uplifted  look  on  his  ascetic  face.  In  a  corner 
before  a  shrine  a  candle  burnt  feebly  in  the  dusk.  Teddy 
approached  it,  attracted  by  he  knew  not  what  in  the 
nicker  of  the  flame.     In  the  shrine  was  the  figure  of  the 


252  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Crucified  stripped,  naked,  and  crowned  with  thorns.  The 
figure  drew  him.  Almost  unconsciously  he  dropped  down 
on  the  kneeling  board  and  stared. 

The  priest  with  the  beauty  in  his  face  approached 
him. 

Teddy  rose. 

"D'you  know  who  that  is?"  asked  the  priest  quietly, 
his  eyes  smiling  at  the  other. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Teddy.  "Him  they  call  the  Son  of 
Man." 

The  other  nodded. 

"The  Son  of  God,"  he  said.     "The  Crucified." 

Teddy  was  silent  for  a  time,  breathing  deep. 

A  fire  seemed  smouldering  within  him. 

"I  reckon  He  knew  all  about  it,"  he  said.  "They  did 
Him  down  a  treat.     But  He  beat  'em  in  the  end." 

The  priest's  eyes  ran  over  the  shabby  scarecrow  of  a 
man  climbing  his  Calvary,  it  was  clear,  bowed  down  be- 
neath the  weight  of  the  Cross  that  maybe  his  country  had 
laid  on  his  weak  shoulders. 

Suddenly  a  smile  illuminated  his  face. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  He  forgave  them." 

Quietly  Teddy  walked  down  Archery  Row. 

It  was  an  April  evening,  holy  and  happy.  A  soft  wind 
was  blowing  across  the  city,  breathing  of  primroses  and 
violets  far  away;  and  a  peep  of  fairest  blue  opened  above 


THE  CRUCIFIED  253 

him  between  white  clouds.  His  mood  was  that  of  the 
evening. 

Then  his  eye  caught  a  cage  upon  the  wall.  In  the  boxes 
to  either  side  of  it  shoots  of  green  emerged;  but  from  the 
cage  there  came  no  song. 

He  looked  up  and  could  see  no  bird  patrolling  to  and 
fro  in  its  tiny  prison. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  house.    A  woman  came. 

Teddy  stared  up  at  the  cage. 

"He's  done,"  he  said.     "His  heart's  broke." 

The  woman  smiled. 

"He's  only  laying  down  at  the  bottom  of  his  cage,"  she 
said.  "Sweet!  Sweet!"  and  she  stood  back  in  the  road 
to  look. 

Teddy  shook  his  head. 

"He's  beat  you,"  he  said.     "He's  out." 

He  walked  away.  As  he  turned  into  the  house  he  saw 
the  woman  up  the  street  entering  the  door,  the  cage  in  her 
hand. 

Teddy  smiled. 

"You  can't  get  him  back,"  he  muttered.  "He's 
gone  —  where  you  can't  follow  with  your  cage." 

In  the  kitchen  Meg  was  crying  in  the  corner. 
"Ain't  she  well  then?"  asked  Teddy  gently. 
Loo's  mouth  began  to  wriggle. 
"She's  hungry,"  she  said.     "No  milk  nor  nothing." 


254  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Meg,"  called  Teddy  tenderly. 

"Yes,  daddy." 

The  child  came  and  stood  before  him  in  her  rags,  her 
little  face  stained  with  tears  and  dirty. 

He  went  down  on  his  knees  on  the  bare  floor  before  her. 

The  child's  toe  gleamed  naked  through  a  hole  in  her 
boots. 

He  bent  and  kissed  it. 

Then  he  looked  up  at  her. 

Her  blue  eyes  smiled  at  him  through  rain. 

He  rose  and  going  to  the  door  gazed  up  at  the  soft  gray- 
bosomed  sky. 

Tn  his  own  mute  way  he  was  praying. 


XXVIII 
THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER 

Mr.  Starkie  was  the  Relieving  Officer  of  Mudsey,  and 
he  conceived  of  himself  as  a  consecrated  Caesar. 

It  was  his  life-regret  that  he  had  not  been  a  soldier  like 
his  father  before  him.  Of  that  father  he  was  wont  to  say 
that  he  had  been  on  the  Staff,  though  he  did  not  add  that 
his  position  on  the  Staff  was  that  of  Pay-Sergeant. 

Mr.  Starkie  himself  was  an  OFFICER  in  capital  letters, 
a  Relieving  Officer;  and  he  did  not  like  you  to  forget  it. 

He  had  the  military  soul,  and  a  martial  bearing,  which 
he  cultivated.  A  tall  man  with  a  heavy  cavalry  mous- 
tache and  a  thrusting  chin,  which  he  liked  his  friends  to 
describe  as  masterful,  he  marched  with  long  strides  about 
the  business  of  the  State,  a  bag  in  his  hand.  His  hero  was 
Lord  Kitchener;  his  favourite  line: 

"A  still  strong  man  in  a  blytant  land." 

He  was  good  friends  with  the  local  captain  of  the  Church 
Army,  but  he  envied  him  his  title.  Also  it  was  a  profound 
if  secret  grief  to  him  that  the  captain  refused  to  discuss 
dogma  with  him,  implying  in  a  gentlemanly  way  (for  he 

255 


256  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

was  well-bred  and  connected  by  marriage  with  a  curate) 
that  such  matters  were  outside  the  sphere  of  Relieving 
Officers,  and  best  left  to  their  spiritual  superiors  —  names 
and  occupations  unspecified. 

The  insinuation,  however  gentle,  wounded  Mr.  Starkie 
all  the  more,  in  that  himself,  a  man  of  character  and  im- 
mense determination,  he  had  continued  his  education  till 
late  in  middle  life,  reading  Shakespeare  doggedly  until  he 
slept  and  learning  French  long  after  most  men  have  for- 
gotten it.  And  if  he  had  the  egoism  natural  to  the  man 
who  has  raised  himself  at  the  cost  of  considerable  sacrifice 
till  he  is  intellectually  advanced  enough  to  realize  very 
clearly  his  superiority  to  the  society  in  which  he  moves,  he 
had  some  justification  for  it. 

Once  he  had  even  written  a  letter  to  the  Spectator  on  the 
"Manufacture  of  Paupers,"  which  the  editor  of  that  paper 
had  described  as  admirable. 

Mr.  Starkie  was  the  one  man  in  Mudsey  to  whom  Doc- 
tor English  was  consistently  unjust. 

The  doctor  disliked  the  man,  disliked  his  office,  and  Mr. 
Starkie  retorted  in  kind. 

The  two  were  enemies  of  old.  And  their  enmity  was 
inevitable  and  ineradicable.  It  arose  out  of  the  clash 
between  two  temperaments  fundamentally  opposed.  The 
friction  between  them  had  long  ago  induced  Doctor  Eng- 
lish to  resign  his  post  as  Poor  Law  Medical  Officer,  and 


THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER  257 

he  had  taken  his  place  instead  upon  the  Board  of  Guar- 
dians —  to  check  and  counter  his  enemy. 

Both  were  well-intentioned  men  and  just — except  about 
the  other;  but  they  were  essentially  unsympathetic; 
and  after  twenty-five  years'  war  they  had  only  to  meet  to 
bristle.  The  scenes  between  the  two  men  upon  the 
Board  of  Guardians  had  long  been  the  talk  of  Municipal 
Mudsey. 

For  those  who  knew  Doctor  English  the  situation  could 
be  revealed  in  the  flash  of  a  phrase:  Mr.  Starkie  was  a  hard 
man. 

He  was  a  churchman  and  a  strong  conservative.  In 
politics  therefore,  in  principle,  and  in  personality,  the  two 
men  were  mutually  antipathetic. 

The  doctor  was  a  little  before  his  times,  the  Relieving 
Officer  a  little  behind  them  —  the  space  between  them 
ever  growing  as  with  the  years,  the  one  still  advanced  and 
the  other  retired.  Doctor  English  stood  for  the  advent  of 
the  Love  which  was  streaming  on  faint  and  beautiful 
wings  out  of  the  Dawn,  Mr.  Starkie  for  the  Force  which 
was  retreating  sullenly  and  with  lashing  tail  into  the 
Hinterland  of  Time.  Both  were  good  men;  and  for 
each  the  principle  for  which  he  stood  was  a  religion. 

Mr.  Starkie  said  that  Doctor  English  spoilt  the  poor; 
and  the  doctor  replied  that  Mr.  Starkie  bullied  them. 
And  there  was  more  than  a  grain  of  truth  in  both  indict- 
ments :  for  each  erred  somewhat  in  the  direction  that  was 


258  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

most  natural  to  him;  but  each  overshot  the  mark  in  label- 
ling the  other  respectively  tyrant  and  sentimentalist. 

And  if  Mr.  Starkie  was  a  hard  man,  and  tended  to  grow 
harder  with  experience,  it  may  be  that  he  had  some  reason 
to  be.  All  his  working  life  had  been  spent  examining, 
adjudicating  on,  and  in  the  main  resisting  the  claims  of 
those  who  desired  or  had  been  driven  to  live  in  part  or 
wholly  on  their  neighbours  without  return  of  labour  done. 
And  if  thirty  years  of  constant  contact  with  the  cadging 
class  had  left  him  suspicious  and  cynical,  his  heart  some- 
what shrivelled,  his  will  hardened,  the  fount  of  pity  drying 
within  him,  it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at.  For  ten  hours 
of  every  working  day  he  was  in  conflict  with  those  whom 
indolence  sometimes  and  more  often  necessity  compelled 
to  squeeze  the  most  they  could  out  of  their  neighbours 
through  him;  and  he  found  them,  as  he  truly  said,  cunning 
as  foxes. 

A  faithful  worker,  just  according  to  his  lights,  he  had 
his  duty  to  the  taxpayer  to  consider  and  his  duty  to  the 
destitute.  To  be  fair  to  both,  this  was  his  by  no  means 
easy  task.  On  several  occasions  he  had  been  subjected 
to  physical  injury,  and  frequently  to  furious  abuse,  by 
those  who  sought  his  aid,  and  more  than  once  arrainged 
by  Society  or  at  the  Bar  of  Public  Opinion  when  a  scan- 
dal had  arisen  as  the  result  of  his  severity. 

It  was  his  difficult  business  to  discriminate  between 
those  who  had  brought  destitution  on  themselves  and 


THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER  259 

those  on  whom  Society  had  brought  it.  Because  he  was 
human  he  made  mistakes  —  for  which  he  paid  in  the  dark 
hours;  because  he  was  hard  he  made  bad  mistakes,  erring 
always  on  the  side  of  severity,  taught  so  to  do  by  the 
experience  of  thirty  years. 

Yet  no  man  tried  harder  to  do  right.  Often  he  would 
drop  in  at  homes  late  at  night  to  find  out  if  a  man  was 
drunk  or  deserving;  or  a  woman  destitute  through  her  own 
fault  or  that  of  the  community. 

He  was  always  overworked  and  usually  harsh  and  irri- 
table. And  if  Doctor  English  satid  with  some  truth  that 
he  cross-examined  every  applicant  as  if  he  was  a  liar,  it 
must  also  be  added  with  equal  truth  that  nine  out  of  ten 
of  them  were  so.  For  Mr.  Starkie's  reputation  for  severity 
kept  the  respectable  poor  away.  These  went  to  him  as 
a  last  resource,  and  some  not  then.  Not  a  few  preferred 
the  refuge  of  the  river  or  the  halter  to  running  the  gauntlet 
of  his  inquisition.  Mr.  Starkie  was  called  deterrent  with 
some  justice,  and  would  reply  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
deter. 

Withal  he  was  by  no  means  a  bad  fellow.  Most  men 
respected  him,  and  in  his  own  home  he  was  well  liked. 

Mr.  Starkie  was  sitting  in  his  office,  great  ledgers 
open  before  him,  dealing  with  applicants,  cross-examining 
them,  checking  their  answers  in  his  ledgers,  making  rough 
notes. 

Most  of  his  applicants  were  old  customers.     He  dealt 


THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

with  them  briefly,  bluntly,  but  here  and  there  not 
unkindly. 

It  was  said  in  Mudsey  that  he  had  his  favourites;  but 
he  had  not  many  of  them.  And  if  he  was  a  hard  man  he 
was  not  an  inhuman  one. 

"It's  my  business  to  be  brutal,"  he  said  sometimes  with 
characteristic  sincerity;  and  perhaps  he  was  right. 

He  had  dispatched  his  last  applicant,  and  rising  from 
his  stool  was  shutting  up  his  ledgers,  when  he  heard  feet 
in  the  passage  without. 

"Come  in,"  he  ordered  in  the  harsh  reverberating  voice 
that  should,  he  felt  sure,  have  directed  battalions  on  the 
battlefield. 

A  shred  of  a  man,  flame-tipped,  and  hollow-cheeked, 
entered.  He  was  new  to  Mr.  Starkie,  though  a  not  unu- 
sual type.  Men  with  much  those  hollow  cheeks,  those 
bright  eyes,  and  that  pitifully  transparent  air  often  crept 
into  his  office.  But  about  this  man  there  was  something 
peculiar.  He  was  hardly  sullen  —  as  many  were;  he  was 
certainly  not  obsequious  —  as  most  were :  there  was  about 
him  a  kind  of  white  defiance,  pitiful  if  only  by  reason  of  its 
impotence.  He  looked  somehow  like  a  phosphorescent 
flame  flickering  bitterly  in  a  draught  before  it  expires. 

He  stood  by  the  door  with  downward  eyes,  catching  for 
his  breath. 

"You're  late,"  said  Mr.  Starke  sharply.  "I  shut  at 
5.30.     Who  are  you?     What  d'you  want?" 


THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER  2(51 

He  was  unusually  harsh.  His  little  boy  was  danger- 
ously ill  of  bronchitis,  and  he  wanted  to  be  at  the  lad's 
bedside. 

"'Ankey  — Edward  'Ankey." 

"Come!  speak  up!"  said  the  loud-voiced  inquisitor. 
"Hankey?  Well,  what  is  it,  Hankey?  What  d'you 
want?    You're  late,  and  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

Teddy  twisted  his  cap,  and  his  eyes  wandered  about 
the  room,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none. 

"Assistance,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"Relief,"  replied  Mr.  Starkie.  "Why  can't  you  say 
so?" 

The  other's  eyes  flashed,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"Why  d'you  want  relief?"  continued  Mr.  Starkie. 

"I'm  clean'd  out.  That's  why,"  Teddy  answered, 
stubborn  and  resisting. 

Mr.  Starkie  was  not  favourably  impressed.  In  his 
mind  he  classified  applicants  in  two  sets  —  those  who 
called  him  Sir,  and  those  who  did  not.  There  were  very 
few  in  the  second  category;  and  those  rarely  got  much  in 
the  way  of  out-relief.  Mr.  Starkie  was  of  that  vast  con- 
servative company  who  love  independence  in  the  abstract 
and  regard  it  as  an  essentially  British  attribute,  but  when 
they  meet  it  in  the  flesh  speak  of  it  harshly  as  insolence. 

He  eyed  the  other  severely,  feeling  that  here  was  a  rebel 
who  needed  discipline;  and  Mr.  Starkie  believed  in  dis- 
cipline. 


262  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Out  o'  work." 

"How  long  you  been  out?" 

"Since  the  New  Year." 

"Where  did  you  work?" 

"Mapleton's." 

The  inquisitor's  tone  relaxed  somewhat. 

"Oh,  you're  one  of  them,  are  you?  They're  going 
through  bad  times,  I  hear.  How  long  did  you  work  for 
them?" 

"Goin'  on  seventeen  year." 

Each  was  resisting  the  other  a  little  less. 

"What  was  your  job?" 

"Leading  hand  on  a  splitting-machine." 

"What  wage?" 

Teddy  swayed  his  head. 

"It's  all  accordin'.  Ours  is  piece-work.  Might  make 
between  two  and  three  pound  a  week." 

Mr.  Starkie  turned  up  a  ledger  and  checked  the 
answer.  Then  he  tilted  his  chair  and  pressed  his  finger- 
tips together. 

"That's  not  a  bad  wage.  And  you  had  it  over  a  num- 
ber of  years.     Did  you  save  nothing?" 

"A  bit." 

"How  much?" 

"A  matter  of  twenty  pounds." 

Mi.  Starkie  nodded. 


THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER  263 

"What's  come  to  it?" 

"Pinched." 

"What?     Come,  my  man,  speak  up." 

"Stolen." 

"Who  by?" 

"Lodger." 

Mr.  Starkie  leaned  back  and  suppressed  a  smile. 

"What?     When  you  was  asleep?" 

"No;  I  was  out." 

"Pity  you  wasn't  in.  Pity  to  be  out  when  you've  got 
capital  floating  about." 

Mr.  Starkie,  like  many  men  in  power,  prided  himself 
upon  his  wit  and  had  some  reason  to :  for  those  in  contact 
with  him  rarely  failed  to  laugh  at  his  jokes.  This  man 
did  not.     Mr.  Starkie  noticed  it  with  disfavour. 

He  took  up  his  inquisition. 

"Are  you  married?" 

"Yes." 

"How  many  in  family?" 

"Three.     Self,  wife,  and  child." 

"What's  your  rent?" 

"Twelve-and-six." 

The  other  opened  his  eyes. 

"Where  d'you  live?     ParkLyne?" 

"Archery  Row." 

Mr.  Starkie  turned  up  a  ledger  and  again  checked  the 
answer. 


264  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Are  you  behind?" 

"Two  or  three  pound." 

"They've  let  you  run  on,  then?" 

"We've  lived  there  ever  since  we  was  married." 

"Any  lodgers?" 

"Not  since  that  one." 

"You've  got  the  whole  house  to  yourself  —  the  three  of 
you?" 

"Yes?" 

The  Relieving  Officer  leaned  back  again. 

"But  if  you  can  afford  to  pay  that  rent  and  live  by 
yourselves  in  a  house  with  five  or  six  rooms  in  it,  you  don't 
want  relief,  Hankey." 

Teddy  said  nothing. 

"There's  only  three  of  you.  You  could  do  very  well  in 
a  single  room  you  could  get  for  3s.  a  week  —  instead  o' 
livin'  in  a  large  house  with  a  couple  of  rooms  apiece  like 
Mr.  Pierpont  Morgan." 

Mr.  Starkie  put  on  his  hat  and  rose. 

Teddy  trembled  and  restrained  himself. 

"I  don't  want  to  move  just  now.  My  wife's  expectin' 
trouble." 

"Who  looks  after  her?" 

"Doctor  English." 

Again  the  other  stiffened. 

"But  if  you  can  afford  to  have  Doctor  English  to  looV 
after  your  wife  you  don't  want  relief  from  the  rates." 


THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER  265 

Again  Teddy  was  silent.  He  stood  like  a  pale  shadow 
against  the  door.  Something  pitiful  about  him  seemed 
to  strike  the  other. 

"How  did  you  come  out  of  work?'*  he  asked  more 
kindly. 

"Had  to  give  up." 

The  other  eyed  him. 

"You  don't  look  very  strong.     Anything  up?" 

"Keep  on  coughin\" 

"Got  a  club?" 

"Yes.    Sick  club  at  the  works." 

"Been  on  it?" 

"Yes:  I'm  out  now." 

"What  d'you  have  for  dinner?" 

"Potato." 

Mr.  Starkie  put  on  his  coat. 

"I'll  look  round  to-morrow." 

"Can  I  'ave  something  to  go  on  with?  There's  no  coal 
nor  food." 

"I'll  come  round  early  to-morrow.  You  must  get  a 
bit  from  a  neighbour  for  the  night." 

Teddy  sauntered  toward  the  door  with  a  touch  of  the 
old  swagger. 

"What!  Got  to  ask  the  Guardians  or  something?"  he 
said. 

"I  'ave  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  the  other 
harshly. 


266  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Next  day  Mr.  Starkie  marched  down  Archery  Row  and 
stopped  at  No.  23. 

All  the  neighbours  were  aware  of  it  and  watched. 

Loo  came  to  the  door.     She  felt  her  neighbours'  eyes. 

"Will  you  come  in,  sir?"  she  said. 

Mr.  Starkie  liked  her  better  than  her  husband. 

He  entered  with  his  hat  on.  It  was  little  touches  such 
as  these  that  made  the  poor  of  Mudsey  loathe  him  and 
Doctor  English  yearn  to  kick  him. 

He  glanced  round  the  parlour. 

"You  look  a  bit  bare,"  he  said. 

Loo's  mouth  began  to  wriggle  in  a  way  very  familiar  to 
the  Relieving  Officer. 

"It  wasn't  like  that  once,"  she  said. 

He  advanced  into  the  kitchen. 

"What  are  all  those  bottles?" 

"My  husband's  lung-tonic." 

She  handed  him  one.  He  read  the  label,  well-known 
to  him. 

"He  doesn't  look  very  strong,"  he  said. 

"No,  sir.  It's  his  cough.  Keeps  on.  Weakens  him 
so."     She  broke  down  and  wept. 

He  made  a  note. 

"Well,  I  shall  have  to  ask  the  Medical  Officer  to  step 
round  and  have  a  look  at  him."  He  glanced  at  her  figure. 
"You  look  as  if  you  want  a  bit  of  attention  yourself,  Mrs. 
Hankey,"  he  said  gently. 


THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER  267 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered  simply.     "I'm  due  now." 

Again  he  made  a  note. 

Then  he  gave  her  an  order  for  groceries  and  coal. 

"This  will  tide  you  over  for  a  day  or  two,"  he  said. 
"We  must  see  what  can  be  done,"  he  added  not  unkindly. 

He  dropped  in  at  the  dispensary  of  the  Poor  Law  Medi- 
cal Officer  on  his  way  home. 

"And  it's  my  belief,  if  I  may  venture  an  opinion,"  he 
said,  "that  he  is  far  gone  in  consumption,  and  never  will 
do  another  day's  work,  and  that  therefore  out-relief  is 
vain." 

Next  day  Doctor  Plum,  the  Poor  Law  Medical  Officer, 
went  round  and  examined  Teddy. 

"You'd  best  come  in,"  he  said  briefly,  folding  up  his 
stethoscope. 

Teddy  breathed  white. 
'The  Workhouse?" 

"Yes;  the  infirmary.  You'll  be  best  there.  You're 
doing  no  good  here  —  to  yourself  or  your  wife  and  child." 

Doctor  Plum  was  a  brisk  and  busy  man,  trying  to  run 
a  private  practice  to  supplement  the  mean  salary  the 
State  paid  him  for  his  services,  and  he  had  not  time  to  be 
courteous  or  considerate. 

Teddy  followed  him  to  the  door  and  there  almost  ran 
into  the  arms  of  Doctor  English,  who  wore  a  black  tie 
and  was  dressed  in  dark  gray. 


268  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  doctor  entered,  and  saw  the  other  white  and  quiver- 
ing. 

"What  is  it,  Ted?"  he  asked. 

"They  want  to  put  me  away,  sir." 

He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"Where?" 

"In  there." 

"Workhouse?" 

Teddy  nodded. 

The  doctor  paused  and  blinked. 

"I'll  see  what  can  be  done,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

That  evening  Mr.  Starkie  met  Doctor  Plum,  the  Poor 
Law  Medical  Officer,  and  mentioned  the  case  of  Hankey. 

"Seems  he's  one  of  English's  pets,"  he  said,  with  an 
ugly  sneer.  "So  he's  got  to  go  before  the  Board.  Can't 
be  treated  same  as  anybody  else,  English's  pets  can't. 
Special  preferential  treatment  for  them.  And  he  goes 
about  saying  I've  got  my  favourites." 

Doctor  Plum,  a  bald-headed  young  man,  who  derived 
considerable  amusement  from  the  unending  conflict  be- 
tween the  two  men,  grinned. 

"He  can't  do  much,"  he  said.  "The  man  must  come 
in." 

"Of  course  he  must,"  said  Mr.  Starkie.  "And  best 
place  for  him  too." 


XXIX 
THE  BOARD  OF  GUARDIANS 

The  Mudsey  Board  of  Guardians  was  sitting. 

They  were  solid  men,  in  the  main  honest,  on  the  whole 
just,  unquestionably  kind,  and  comfortable  in  their 
middle-class  security,  these  citizens  whose  sordid  if  nec- 
essary task  it  was  to  preside  over  the  scrap-heap  on  which 
Mudsey  dumped  its  waste. 

The  chairman,  a  clergyman,  was  an  able  administrator, 
and  a  most  efficient  man  of  business.  He  had  married 
money,  had  no  cure  of  souls,  and  was  the  prop  of  Con- 
servatism in  his  constituency.  Keen,  clear-headed,  some- 
what hard,  he  was  a  vice-president  of  the  Property  Defence 
League,  an  active  supporter  of  the  Anti-Socialist  Union, 
and  a  whole-hearted  believer  in  the  Poor  Law,  which  he 
administered  admirably. 

For  him  Doctor  English  was  a  doctrinaire  and  dreamer. 
He  pitied  rather  than  disliked  him,  defining  him  as  a  good 
man  ruined  by  fatty  degeneration  of  the  heart. 

Miss  English  admired  him;  Mr.  Starkie  believed  in  him 
profoundly. 


270  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Mr.  Thome's  all  right,"  he  would  say  with  a  shrewd 
nod.     "No  English  about  him." 

To-day  there  was  a  full  Board  meeting,  with  Mr.  Starkie 
and  Doctor  Plum  in  attendance. 

When  Teddy  Hankey's  case  came  up  for  consideration 
Mr.  Starkie  outlined  it  at  length,  while  Doctor  English 
sat  sombre  and  silent,  hearkening. 

There  appeared  to  be  no  doubt  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
case,  said  Mr.  Starkie.  The  Hankeys  seemed  thoroughly 
respectable  people,  whose  destitution  was  not  brought  on 
by  drink  or  sloth  or  crime,  so  far  as  he  could  ascertain. 

They  were  some  pounds  behind  with  the  rent;  they  were 
hourly  expecting  the  broker's  man  to  put  them  out  into 
the  street;  and  the  home  was  bare  to  the  boards. 

"Where  do  they  live?"  asked  the  chairman. 

"Archery  Row." 

"What  rent?" 

"  Twelve-and-six  a  week." 

The  chairman  stared. 

"  Twelve-and-six  a  week ! "  he  said.  "  No  wonder  they're 
destitute." 

"They've  lived  there  since  they  were  married,"  inter- 
posed Doctor  English. 

"Have  they  the  whole  house  to  themselves?" 

"The  company  won't  let  them  underlet,"  said  the 
doctor. 


THE  BOARD  OF  GUARDIANS  271 

"Don't  they  take  in  a  lodger?" 

"They  did," replied  the  doctor,  "and  were  unfortunate." 

Mr.  Starkie  told  the  story  of  the  stolen  money  with 
some  wit. 

Some  one  tittered. 

"I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  remarked  Doctor  English, 
sitting  like  a  shadow  among  his  colleagues. 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  chairman.     "  How  many  in  family?  " 

"There's  one  child,  and  another  on  the  way;  and  the 
man  is  far  gone  in  consumption." 

On  this  latter  point  Doctor  Plum  gave  evidence. 

"Is  he  incurable?"  asked  the  chairman. 

"Quite,"  replied  the  Poor  Law  Medical  Officer  firmly. 
"Both  lungs  nearly  gone." 

"No  sanatorium  would  take  him  then?"  said  the  chair- 
man. 

Doctor  Plum  shook  his  head. 

"No  chance  now,"  he  said. 

"How  long  is  he  likely  to  live?" 

The  other  shrugged. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"It  seems  there's  nothing  for  it  but  the  infirmary,** 
said  the  chairman,  looking  round. 

"Nothing,"  remarked  Doctor  Plum. 

"He'll  get  looked  after  there,"  said  Mr.  Starkie. 

There  was  a  silence.  Here  and  there  a  man  raised  a 
stealthy  lid  and  shot  an  eye  at  Doctor  English. 


272  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"It  seems  a  bit  hard  to  take  a  respectable  workingman 
from  his  home  at  the  last,"  he  said.  "A  man  —  a  family 
man  —  likes  to  die  amid  his  own." 

The  Guardians'  eyes  were  down.  They  felt  guilty: 
they  did  not  know  why, 

"What  would  you  suggest?"  asked  the  chairman  at 
length. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Who's  to  give  him  the  nursing  and  all  the  medical 
attendance  he  needs  if  he  stops  outside?"  asked  Doctor 
Plum  at  length.     "I  can't." 

"And  his  wife  can't,"  said  Mr.  Starkie  harshly,  looking 
round  for  support  and  sympathy.  "She  needs  nursing 
herself." 

"And  there's  the  child,"  chimed  in  a  lady-guardian. 

"The  child  sleeps  in  another  room,"  said  Doctor  Eng- 
lish. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Starkie.  "No  overcrowding  there. 
They've  the  whole  house  to  themselves  and  the  rate- 
payers are  to  pay  for  it,  I  understand." 

Doctor  English  growled  in  his  beard. 

"And  there's  the  community,"  chimed  in  a  Noncon- 
formist tradesman,  who  had  his  own  reasons  for  wishing 
to  spite  the  doctor.  "He's  spreading  infection  all  the 
time  he's  about;  transmitting  his  tynte;  sowing  disease." 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Mr.  Starkie. 


THE  BOARD  OF  GUARDIANS  273 

"We  don't  need  Mr.  Starkie  to  tell  us  that,"  snapped 
Doctor  English.  He  turned  to  the  chairman:  "It  seems 
rather  a  special  case,  don't  you  think?" 

"All  Doctor  English's  cases  are  rather  special  ones," 
muttered  Mr.  Starkie.  "  I  don't  see  myself  why  Doctor 
English's  protegees  should  receive  different  treatment  at 
the  'ands  of  the  Board  to  anybody  else.  The  amount  of 
bad  blood  it  makes  in  my  district  — you  wouldn't  believe." 

"I'm  not  asking  for  special  treatment,"  retorted  Doctor 
English  savagely.     "I'm  asking  for  justice." 

The  other  Guardians  sat  round  with  downcast  eyes. 

A  meeting  rarely  passed  without  some  such  clash  be- 
tween the  two  men. 

"What  about  the  wife  and  child?"  asked  the  lady- 
guardian  at  length,  impinging  on  the  painful  silence. 

"I  understand  she's  about  to  have  a  baby,"  said  the 
chairman. 

"That  is  so,"  said  Mr.  Starkie. 

"Then  she'd  best  come  in  too,"  said  the  chairman. 

"Much  best,"  muttered  Mr.  Starkie. 

Doctor  English  was  gray  and  grim  after  his  outburst. 

"Then  the  whole  of  a  deserving  family  would  be  under 
the  Workhouse  roof,"  he  said. 

"  Can  you  make  any  better  suggestion  yourself,  Doctor 
English?"  said  the  chairman  quietly. 

The  big  doctor  did  five-finger  exercises  on  the  table  and 
was  dumb. 


274  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can  keep  the  home  together  under 
the  circumstances,"  continued  the  chairman  at  length. 
"Here's  a  man  dying  of  phthisis;  a  woman  about  to  have  a 
baby  in  a  destitute  home;  pounds  of  rent  owing  —  and 
nothing  coming  in.  We  can  only  do  our  best  with  the 
very  inadequate  means  at  our  disposal.  It's  a  hard  case, 
I  admit." 

"Plenty  of  'em,"  muttered  Doctor  English,  drumming 
away. 

The  chairman  looked  about  him. 

"Has  any  one  any  practical  suggestions  to  make?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Doctor  English  dully.  "If  the  man  '11  go 
into  the  infirmary,  I'll  see  to  his  wife  and  child." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  chairman.  "That's  very  good  of 
you.  If  you'll  see  her  through  her  trouble,  we'll  allow 
her  15s.  a  week.  And  the  man  must  come  into  the  in- 
firmary.   Are  we  all  agreed?" 

He  collected  eyes. 

Mr.  Starkie  rose. 

"Hankey's  outside,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Show  him  in,"  said  the  chairman.  "We'll  have  a 
word  with  him." 


XXX 

BEFORE  THE  BOARD 

Teddy  marched  defiantly  up  the  steps  of  the  Work- 
house. 

His  collar  was  turned  up  as  though  to  defend  himself, 
and  his  cap  hung  over  his  eyes. 

A  blear-eyed  man  in  corduroy  shouted  at  him  from  an 
office. 

Teddy  swung  round. 

"Who  ye  shoutin'  at?"  he  snarled. 

Mr.  Starkie  came  down  the  stairs. 

"That's  all  right,  Hankey,"  he  said.  "This  way,"  and 
opened  a  door  into  the  Board-room. 

"Turn  your  collar  down/'  he  whispered. 

Teddy  marched  into  the  room,  unheeding. 

He  was  not  sullen,  he  was  not  ashamed:  he  was  still  and 
steel-like. 

An  array  of  middle-aged  and  middle-class  citizens, 
plump,  easy  and  secure,  were  gathered  round  a  table,  one 
woman  in  the  midst  of  them.  They  sat  massively  in  their 
chairs  with  downcast  eyes,  ashamed,  it  almost  seemed,  of 
their  solidity. 

275 


276  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  man  was  down,  the  man  was  dying,  and  they 
were  all  sorry. 

Teddy  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  table  phantom- 
wise. 

His  eyes  were  down  and  he  was  breathing  short;  but 
that  still,  steel-like  air  hung  about  him. 

The  chairman  asked  him  a  question  or  two  for  the  sake 
of  courtesy,  and  then  said: 

"Well,  Hankey,  we've  considered  your  case.  And  we 
think  on  the  whole  you'd  better  come  into  the  infirmary. 
You  want  a  bit  of  nursing  just  now.  They'll  look  after 
you  well  there  and  patch  you  up." 

Teddy  squeezed  his  wet  hands. 

"If  I  come  in  here,  I'll  never  get  work  again,"  he  said 
in  subdued  voice.     "They'll  mark  me  down." 

The  chairman  appealed  to  Mr.  Starkie. 

"Is  that  so?" 

The  Relieving  Officer  admitted  that  it  would  be  a 
handicap. 

Doctor  Plum  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper: 

"He'll  never  need  work  again," 

and  passed  it  round. 

The  chairman  glanced  at  it  and  nodded. 

"We  think  you'd  better  come  in  all  the  same  —  Just 
for  the  present,"  he  said  kindly.  "You  want  a  bit  of 
looking  after  —  good  food  and  rest  and  that  —  I  can  see. 


BEFORE  THE  BOARD  277 

You've  had  a  bad  time.  They'll  make  you  very  comfort- 
able in  here." 

The  flame  of  a  man  at  the  foot  of  the  table  flared  up. 

"And  what  about  my  'ome,  sir?" 

"We  want  you  to  make  your  home  here  for  the 
present." 

"And  my  wife  and  child?" 

"If  you'll  come  in,  we're  prepared  to  see  to  your  wife 
and  child." 

Teddy  set  his  lips.    He  was  more  steel-like  than  ever 

"If  I  come  in,  they'll  come  in  too,"  he  said. 

Doctor  English  for  the  first  time  raised  his  eyes. 

"Surely,  Hankey,  you  don't  want  your  child  born  in 
the  Workhouse?"  he  said. 

"If  I  come  in,"  said  Teddy  stubbornly,  "they're  best 
in  too.    Then  I'll  know  where  they  are." 

There  was  a  murmur  among  the  Guardians. 

Out  of  it  emerged  Mr.  Starkie's  voice: 

"Well,  it's  the  best  way  out  of  it." 

The  doctor  growled  round  on  him.  Then  the  chair- 
man spoke  again. 

"Your  wife  and  child  can  be  admitted  too,  if  you  wish 
it,"  he  said. 

"They'll  be  separated,  I  warn  you,"  said  Doctor  Eng- 
lish. "Meg  will  go  the  Workhouse,  and  your  wife  to  the 
infirmary  —  the  women's   ward " 

Teddy  stood  white  as  ice  and  as  stiff. 


278  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"  If  I  come  in,  they'll  come  in  too,"  he  said.  "  Then  I'll 
know  where  they  are." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  chairman  reluctantly.  "Mr. 
Starkie  will  make  you  out  an  order  for  admittance." 

There  was  a  silence. 

Doctor  English  sat  back,  and  his  eyes  were  shut. 

Out  of  the  stillness  there  came  in  upon  his  ear  the  voice 
of  his  cockney-friend,  thin  and  far  away. 

"Beg  pardon.  There's  one  thing  I'd  like  to  know." 
The  voice  paused.     "What  are  I  being  punished  for?" 

The  chairman  grunted. 

"You're  not  being  punished  at  all." 

The  man  at  the  foot  of  the  table  shifted  on  his  feet,  and 
wrung  his  cap. 

" Beg  pardon.  If  I  go  in  there,  will  I  have  my  liberty?  " 
came  the  tremulous  voice,  so  obviously  short  of  breath. 
"Can  I  come  and  go  as  I  like?" 

Doctor  Plum  interposed. 

"You  won't  want  to  come  and  go.  You'll  be  where 
you  ought  to  have  been  some  time  ago  —  in  bed  and 
properly  nursed,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "It's  just  a  hos- 
pital." 

The  condemned  man  looked  at  him  hollow-eyed  and 
accusing. 

"Do  you  lose  your  vote  in  a  hospital?"  he  asked.  He 
had  the  point  from  Swiney. 

There  was  no  answer. 


BEFORE  THE  BOARD  279 

In  the  silence  Doctor  English  could  hear  the  other's 
short,  uncertain  breathing. 

One  Guardian  muttered  to  another  that  the  man  was  a 
bit  of  a  lawyer.    His  colleague  nodded. 

Then  Mr.  Starkie  spoke. 

"Come,  Hankey!  It's  hardly  for  you  to  cross-question 
the  Board,"  he  said. 

Doctor  English  opened  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  chairman?"  he  growled. 

Teddy  coughed  faintly.  He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
table,  transparent  as  a  flame,  his  white  face  uplifted,  and 
Lands  twitching. 

"Ain't  it  bad  enough  to  have  this  trouble  on  me  without 
that  on  top?"  came  his  thin  voice.  "Packed  off  in  there 
along  of  all  sorts  with  the  pauper  tynte  on  me."  He  was 
a  dingy  white  flecked  with  crimson.  "I'll  ask  Doctor 
English  to  say  a  word  for  me,"  he  ended. 

The  big  doctor  was  dumb.  For  long  he  sat  with  down- 
cast eyes. 

"I  think  you'd  better  come  in,  Hankey,"  he  said  at  last. 

Teddy  turned  the  colour  of  a  sword. 

"Thank  you,  Doctor  English,"  he  cried  with  a 
trembling  bow.  "You're  a  good  friend  when  a  chap's 
down." 

He  swung  about  and  marched  sprightly  to  the  door.  A 
new  life  possessed  him,  the  life  that  is  Hate,  laughing  and 
terrible. 


280  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  swaggered  down  the  steps  into  the  street. 

A  cripple  who  had  sat  for  years  at  the  window 
opposite  watching  the  Workhouse  door  which  would 
some  day  open  to  receive  himself  grinned  sympathet- 
ically. 

"  He's  got  round  'em,  I'll  lay,"  he  muttered.  "  They've 
give  him  good  relief." 

Teddy  marched  down  the  street.  There  was  a  light 
in  his  eye,  and  he  looked  ten  years  younger,  riding  high 
on  the  white  wave  that  swept  through  him. 

An  old  mate  across  the  street  greeted  him  cheerily. 

"Why,  Ted,  you  look  twice  the  man!"  he  called. 

"I'm  right  enough,"  answered  Teddy,  and  swaggered 
recklessly  on,  whistling. 

Mr.  Starkie  caught  him  up  and  dismounted  from  his 
bicycle. 

"Sorry  you  went  away  like  that,  Hankey,"  he  said. 
"You  can  have  an  order  for  the  infirmary  whenever  you 
like." 

"Thank  you,  old  cock!  thank  you!"  cried  Teddy. 

The  Relieving  Officer  mounted  afresh. 

"And  the  Board  requested  me  to  tell  your  wife  that 
there'll  be  no  further  orders  for  groceries  and  coal  until 
you  come  in." 

He  rode  on. 

"You  re  a  gentleman!"  cried  Teddy  after  him. 
" That's  what  Mr.  Starkie  is.     Ain't  he? " 


BEFORE  THE  BOARD  281 

He  was  whistling  still  as  he  entered  home. 

Loo  met  him,  anxious-eyed. 

"What  they  offer  you,  Ted?"  she  asked. 

"The Bastille!"  he  said,  and  broke  into  terrible 

laughter.     "You  and  me  and  Meg  and  all." 


XXXI 
THE  BLOW 

Loo  did  not  weep. 

She  was  too  dull,  too  dead. 

Quietly  she  trailed  upstairs. 

The  rounded  outlines  of  her  figure  showed  clear  be- 
neath the  dress  that  clung  close  as  a  mist  about  her  body. 

The  Relieving  Officer's  supplies  had  run  out  and  that 
afternoon  she  had  pawned  her  underclothes,  and  laid 
out  the  proceeds  on  the  necessaries  of  life.  Twopence 
had  gone  for  coal — Loo  was  buying  coal  now  as  her  sisters 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town  bought  their  tea,  i.  e.9  by  the 
pound;  two  pence  in  potatoes,  which  were  cheaper  than 
bread;  a  few  pence  more  in  tea,  pepper  and  salt,  wood  and 
the  like;  and  two  coppers  lay  upon  the  table.  These  the 
mother  meant  to  spend  on  milk  for  Meg. 

Teddy  swept  them  up  and  went  out  into  the  night,  the 
laughing  devil  still  in  his  heart. 

He  was  a  capitalist  once  more.  He  had  twopence  in  his 
pocket  for  the  first  time  for  days. 

The  night  was  clear  and  beautiful.  Up  above  all  was 
stillness  and  stars.     In  the  shining  darkness  a  slice  of 

282 


THE  BLOW  283 

moon  blazed  white,  and  a  huge  calm  cloud-berg,  radiant 
in  the  moonlight,  came  over  the  tops  of  the  low  dark 
houses. 

Teddy  stopped  and  stared. 

The  laughing  devil  died  down  in  his  heart.  For  a 
moment  a  wave  of  peace  surged  through  him,  stilling  his 
storm.  Then  he  hunted  on  with  earthward  eyes.  He  was 
down  once  more  amid  dark  houses,  foul  smells,  and  men 
and  women  with  eyes,  millions  of  them,  who  gathered 
about  him  in  the  dusk,  gloating  over  his  misery. 

They  didn't  care;  nor  did  he. 

Ha!  ha! 

At  the  end  of  the  street  where  Archery  Row  ran  into  the 
busy  thoroughfare  along  which  trams  glided  with  clang- 
ing bells  and  men  and  women  bustled  and  loafed  in  the 
lamplight,  the  Brighton  Arms  flared  meretriciously. 

As  Teddy  passed  out  of  the  quiet  backwater  into  the 
hum  of  the  main  stream  the  lights  drew  him.  They  were 
warm,  welcoming.     Within  all  was  bright,  cheery,  clean. 

For  the  first  time  for  years  he  turned  in. 

Swiney  stood  at  the  four-ale  bar  with  a  big  cigar  and 
a  foaming  tankard,  and  greeted  the  other  affectionately. 

Leather  had  been  looking  up  of  late  in  Mudsey:  Ma- 
pleton's  was  more  thriving:  Swiney  now  a  leading  hand 
himself.  Moreover,  Syndicalism  had  emerged  of  a  sud- 
den out  of  the  darkness  into  the  firmament  of  world- 
politics;  and  Swiney  rejoiced. 


284  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"'Ellow,  Ted!  you're  quite  a  stranger!"  he  cried,  and 
offered  him  a  drink. 

Teddy  refused  with  a  ghost  of  the  old  swagger,  ordering 
a  lemon  and  a  dash,  and  chucking  his  twopence  down 
upon  the  bar. 

"And  how's  the  State  serving  you  now?"  asked  Swiney. 

"Why,  as  you  might  expect,", replied  the  other,  drinking. 

And  as  he  drank  Swiney  talked  —  the  old  malignant 
talk. 

On  the  previous  evening  at  the  Mudsey  Radical  Club 
he  had  been  listening  to  a  speaker  of  the  National  Service 
League.  The  room  had  been  hung  with  mottoes  and 
quotations  from  the  speeches  of  statesmen  urging  on  all 
men  the  paramount  duty  of  serving  their  country. 

"'Fight  for  your  country !'  say  they.  'Let  them  fight 
for  a  country  that's  got  one,'  I  answers.  Country! 
What's  the  country  do  for  you  and  me?"  The  door  on 
the  street  was  wide.  Through  it  they  could  see  a  police- 
man standing  in  the  light  of  a  street-lamp  outside. 
Swiney  pointed  him  out.  "Puts  him  there  to  bludgeon 
you  if  you  stand  out  for  your  rights." 

"That's  it,"  said  Teddy,  drinking.  "Bleed  you  dry, 
and  then  trample  on  you.  That's  Patriotism,  that  is. 
That's  Imperialism." 

"Now  you've  got  it,  my  boy,"  said  Swiney  approvingly, 
and  stood  the  other  treat.  "That's  God's  truth.  We're 
to  defend  the  country  they  own.     And  the  country's  to 


THE  BLOW  285 

do  nothing  for  us  in  return  —  only  put  him  there  to  run 
us  in." 

For  some  time  they  hobnobbed  together  thus,  Teddy 
drinking  gin  at  his  friend's  expense,  and  imbibing  from  his 
lips  a  deadlier  poison. 

At  last  he  rose  and  went  out,  his  head  singing  and  heart 
embittered. 

Outside  he  came  upon  the  policeman,  who  loomed  be- 
fore him  big  and  black  as  a  thunder-cloud. 

Suddenly  the  laughing  devil  spurted  up  in  Teddy's 
heart.     A  squall  of  rage  swept  through  him. 

"You're  one  on  'em!"  he  cried,  and  plunged  into  the 
black  cloud. 

"Hullo!  Hullo!  What's  this?"  came  a  burly  voice 
out  of  a  cloud,  which  forthwith  enveloped  him. 

As  he  felt  it  close  about  him,  Teddy  struggled,  kicked, 
screamed,  bit,  swore.  All  the  long-dammed  bitterness 
of  his  heart  came  spouting  out  of  him. 

Men  and  women  rushed  from  all  sides  to  see,  eddying 
about  the  struggling  two,  and  encouraging  Teddy  with 
jeers  and  cheers. 

They  thought  it  funny  —  this  revolt  of  one  man  against 
millions. 

"Hit  a  chap  yer  own  size,  guv'nor!" 

"Two  to  one  on  the  little  'un!" 

"Nah  then  the  copper!    Nah  then  Fat  Chops!" 

The  policeman,  a  big  pink  man,  shook  his  antagonist  as 


286  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

a  nurse  may  shake  a  naughty  child,  engulfed  him,  smoth- 
ered him,  and  finally  marched  him  off,  a  drowned  rat  of  a 
man,  dishevelled,  spluttering,  awry. 

Swiney,  who  had  watched  the  struggle  as  a  disin- 
terested spectator  from  the  steps  of  the  public-house,  saw 
him  led  off  amid  a  trailing  rabble. 

"They  got  you,  Ted,"  he  said;  and  picked  his  teeth 
resignedly. 

At  the  police-station  they  lodged  the  prisoner  in  a  cell. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  the  man  with  the  charge 
sheet. 

"  Assault,"  said  the  big  policeman,  puffing  still.  "  Came 
out  of  the  Brighton  Arms  and  went  for  me  blind  without 
a  word,  the  —  little  bounder!" 

The  other  grinned. 

"I  daresay  he  didn't  hurt  you  much,  Jumbo,"  he 
said. 

The  big  man's  dignity  was  not  so  wounded  but  that  he 
could  see  the  joke. 

"Kicked  about  a  treat,  I  can  tell  you,"  he  said,  smooth- 
ing himself.  "I  'ad  to  mesmerize  him.  Call  me  Fat 
Chops  too!  And  swear!  Wouldn't  believe  a  little  chap 
like  that  could  hold  so  many  oaths  " 

Teddy  sat  with  closed  eyes  and  sweated  and  coughed 
in  a  little  bare  cell. 


THE  BLOW  287 

He  was  too  weak  to  revel;  and  the  laughing  devil  had 
died  out  of  his  heart. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  he  asked  to  see  Doctor 
English. 

The  police  telephoned  to  the  doctor  and  reported  that 
he  had  been  called  away,  but  he  should  be  given  the 
message  upon  his  return. 

Teddy  waited  all  night,  his  eyes  on  the  crack  of  the 
door. 

Doctor  English  did  not  come. 

In  the  morning  a  policeman  asked  him  if  they  should 
telephone  through  again. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Teddy,  white  as  steel. 

An  hour  later  he  stood  a  prisoner  in  the  dock  between 
two  policemen. 

A  bored  man  in  a  black  coat  sat  in  a  red-backed  chair 
on  a  dais  and  listened. 

The  big  pink  policeman  gave  his  evidence  profes- 
sionally. 

He  had  been  on  duty  outside  the  Brighton  Arms  about 
seven  last  night,  and  he  could  see  the  prisoner  drinking 
with  his  friends  within.  They  all  appeared  excited  and 
were  talking  Socialism  —  down  with  the  King  and  the 
country,  so  far  as  he  could  hear. 

"It's  a  lie!"  said  Teddy. 

"Silence!"  snapped  the  magistrate. 


288  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Teddy  laughed. 

Half-an-hour  later,  continued  Fat  Chops,  the  prisoner, 
as  he  came  out  of  the  public-house,  deliberately  assaulted 
him,  shouting: 

"You're  one  on  'em." 

When  arrested,  the  prisoner  became  very  violent, 
kicked,  and  bit  like  a  mad  thing,  and  used  foul  language. 

A  doctor  then  certified  that  he  had  examined  the  pris- 
oner at  the  police-station.  The  prisoner  had  been  drinking, 
but  was  hardly  drunk.     The  alcoholic  swerve  was  absent. 

The  bored  man  with  the  heavy  eyelids  asked  Teddy 
what  he  had  to  say  for  himself. 

"I  slip  up,"  said  Teddy  doggedly. 

"You  slipped  up?"  said  the  magistrate  quietly.  "It 
was  an  accident?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Teddy. 

The  bored  man's  eyes  smiled. 

"But  how  do  you  account  for  saying,  'You're  one  of 
em  j 

Teddy  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  dock.  Then  he  be- 
came very  still,  and  said  deliberately: 

"And  you're  another!  And  may  God  —  the  —  lot  of 
you!" 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other. 

Then  the  bored  man  said  he  would  deal  leniently  with 
the  case  as  it  was  a  first  offence,  and  gave  the  prisoner  six 
weeks. 


THE  BLOW  289 

Teddy  laughed,  bowed  ironically,  and  was  marched  off 
between  two  policemen. 

In  his  cell  Doctor  English  was  waiting  him. 

Teddy  met  him  with  that  mocking  bow  of  his,  and  re- 
fused to  shake  hands. 

"'Ope  you're  satisfied  now,  Doctor  English!"  he  said. 

The  big  doctor  stood  before  him,  breathing  deep. 

"I  couldn't  come  before,"  he  answered.  "I  was  up  all 
night  with  your  wife.  She  was  brought  to  bed  about  ten. 
It  was  a  very  bad  case.  I've  had  to  see  her  off  to  the 
hospital  this  morning.  She  should  pull  through  now." 
He  added  quietly:     "The  child  was  born  dead." 

There  was  a  bitter  yet  triumphant  flare  in  the  other's 
eyes  as  he  said, 

"That's  better." 


part  m 

CRUSHED 


It  behoved,  said  he,  that  Christ  should  suffer  and  rise  from  the  dead  and  so 
enter  into  his  glory.  —  St.  Thomas  a  Kemjris. 


XXXII 
TEDDY  RETURNS  HOME 

Teddy  had  not  been  in  his  prison-cell  many  hours  before 
a  doctor  came  to  see  him. 

He  was  old,  Irish,  and  very  kind. 

"Poo'  fellah!"  he  puffed  and  panted.  "Poo'  fellah!— 
Pack  him  off  to  bed  at  once.  Oughtn't  to  be  here  at  all," 
and  he  patted  the  other's  thin,  broad-arrowed  shoulder. 

They  put  him  to  bed  in  the  infirmary  of  the  prison,  and 
gave  him  everything  there  but  the  one  thing  he  needed. 

His  body  was  past  mending  —  the  kind  old  doctor  saw 
that  at  once;  and  they  could  not  tend  his  soul.  That  was 
past  healing  too,  save  by  the  one  medicine  they  were  for- 
bidden to  administer  in  the  gaol  —  the  elixir  of  Love. 

Teddy  lay  very  still,  speaking  not  at  all. 

He  received  two  letters:  one  was  from  Loo,  and  one 
from  Doctor  English.    He  opened  neither. 

The  old  doctor  noticed  it  as  he  puffed  and  panted  on  his 
rounds. 

Something  about  this  rotting  wisp  of  humanity  with  the 
bleak  blue  eyes  for  ever  staring  at  the  barred  window 
moved  the  old  man's  easily  moved  heart. 

«9S 


294  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"How  is  it  with  ye,  poo'  fellah?"  he  puffed. 

"I'm  all  right,  thank  ye,"  Teddy  answered,  that  strange 
steely  light  in  his  eyes. 

"You  should  say  Sir!"  the  warder  reminded  the  sick 
prisoner. 

Teddy  answered  nothing,  staring  at  the  wall. 

The  warder  bent  over  the  bed. 

"I  say  you  should  call  the  doctor  Sir!"  he  continued, 
louder  and  more  harsh. 

"  Ah,  let  'urn  be,"  said  the  old  doctor.  "  Poo'  fellah !  he's 
tired!  —  poo'  fellah!"  and  puffed  and  panted  on  his  way 

Teddy  did  not  serve  his  sentence  out. 

The  kind  old  doctor  saw  to  that. 

"What's  the  good  of  keeping  'um  in  that  state?"  he 
said.  "Let  'um  back  to  his  home  to  die  in  peace  like  I'd 
like  to  do  meself,  poo'  fellah!" 

So  one  dreary,  dusty  midday  Teddy  trailed  down  Arch- 
ery Row  toward  the  house  that  had  been  his  home. 

He  did  not  know  what  he  should  find  there,  and  did 
not  care. 

It  was  instinct  that  led  him  back  and  a  kind  of  curiosity. 

In  that  house  long  ago  had  lived  a  woman  and  a  child. 
The  woman  had  been  his  wife;  and  the  child  was  his — 
long  ago;  before  it  all  happened. 

Women  standing  in  their  doors  watched  him  go,  and 
eyed  each  other  meaningly  across  the  street. 


TEDDY  RETURNS  HOME  295 

"'Ankey's  back,"  they  whispered.  "Don't  he  look 
queer?" 

One  woman  dared  to  say  good-morning  as  he  passed. 
He  did  not  answer  her. 

The  door  of  his  house  was  open. 

He  entered.  The  reek  of  destitution  was  all  about  him. 
He  stood  in  the  bare  parlour  and  sniffed. 

"'Ome,"  he  said. 

A  woman  was  moving  in  the  kitchen  at  the  back. 

It  was  Loo. 

She  heard  him  and  turned. 

Then  she  came  to  him  wistful  and  very  pale. 

"'Ello,  Ted,"  she  said,  shy  and  sweet. 

"'Ellow,"  he  answered,  and  did  not  kiss  her.  "I'm 
gaol-bird  now.     Funny  —  ain't  it?"     He  sniggered. 

She  was  about  to  swoop  upon  him,  then  something  in 
him  stopped  her  —  something  dead. 

He  came  slowly  into  the  kitchen,  and  sniffed  again. 

"Stinks,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  was  only  out  yesterday,  Ted,"  she  answered  gently. 

He  stared  at  her  with  stagnant  eyes. 

"  What?    You  been  in  there  too?  " 

"In  the  hospital,  Ted." 

He  brushed  past  her. 

"Where's  Meg?"  he  asked. 

"School,  dad." 


296  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  glanced  up  to  the  mantelpiece  where  the  clock  that 
had  been  the  Englishs'  wedding  present  to  them  had 
rested  before  it  went  to  the  pawnshop. 

"Why  ain't  she  back  for  dinner?" 

"They're  feeding  her  at  the  school." 

Teddy  sniffed. 

" kind  on  'em,"  he  said. 

He  mouched  on  into  the  kitchen. 

There  was  a  wicker-chair,  new  to  him,  and  other  simple 
comforts. 

"Where's  that  chair  come  from?"  he  asked,  rousing 
suddenly. 

Loo  began  nervously, 

"Doctor  English  sent  it  round  for  me." 

"English,"  he  snorted;  and  kicked  it  savagely. 

His  word  and  deed  terrified  the  woman. 

"Oh,  Ted!"  she  cried,  and  sat  down  and  wept. 

Teddy  marched  out  and  down  the  street  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  back  wheeling  a  truck. 

Without  a  word  he  took  the  chair  and  put  it  on  the 
truck. 

"Anything  else  of  English's  in  my  'ouse?"  he  asked. 

The  sobbing  woman  pointed  him  out  one  or  two  things 
and  added, 

"There's  the  blankets  on  the  bed!" 

Breathing  between  set  teeth,  he  piled  them  on  the 
truck. 


TEDDY  RETURNS  HOME  297 

"Fair-weather  friend,"  he  said.  "Fair-weather  friend. 
That's  what  English  is.  I  don't  wantto  'ave  nothin'  more 
to  do  with  him." 

He  wheeled  the  truck  slowly  away. 

Loo  stood  in  the  door  with  straining  eyes  and  watched 
him  go,  his  thin  shoulders  pulled  down  beneath  the  weight, 
his  crooked  legs  unsteady. 

His  obvious  weakness  touched  her. 

She  ran  and  lent  a  hand  to  shove. 

"Drop  it!"  he  panted. 

Sodden  with  woe,  she  retired  into  the  house. 

As  he  turned  the  corner  the  doctor  wheeled  up  behind 
him  on  his  bicycle,  and  got  off. 

"Well,  Ted,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Well,"  said  Ted,  marching  on. 

"Bringing  the  things  back?" 

"Seems  like  it." 

"Doesn't  your  wife  want  them?" 

"She  don't  want  nothin'  o'  your'n." 

The  doctor  turned  gray.  He  tramped  along  at  the 
other's  side.     Neither  spoke. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  word  for  me,  Ted?"  asked  the 
doctor  at  length. 

"One,"  said  Ted.     "Good-bye." 

The  great  doctor  got  on  his  bicycle. 

"So  long,"  he  said  quietly,  and  rode  back  to  the  house 
from  which  the  other  came. 


298  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Loo's  face  was  still  wrung  and  streaming  as  he  came  in 
to  her. 

"And  after  all  your  kindness,  sir!"  she  sobbed. 

"He's  a  bit  bitter,"  answered  the  other  gently.  "And 
I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder.  He's  had  enough  to  make  him. 
It's  only  a  passing  phase.  I'll  pop  round  to  Doctor  Plum 
and  see  what  can  be  done." 

He  rode  on  to  the  Poor  Law  Medical  Officer  and  told 
him  the  story. 

The  young  man  shook  a  doubtful  head. 

"  You  know  how  I'm  situated,  English,"  he  said.  "  The 
fiat's  gone  forth.  There's  to  be  no  out-relief  till  the  man 
comes  in.  He's  doing  no  good  to  himself  or  anybody  else 
out  here." 

"  And  yet  it  seems  a  bit  hard  the  wife  and  child  should 
suffer  for  his  stubbornness,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  younger  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You're  only  prolonging  the  agony,  seems  to  me,"  he 
said.  "  The  man  should  be  isolated.  However,  I'll  stretch 
a  point.  I'll  give  her  an  order  for  medical  extras.  She's 
only  just  out  of  hospital,  you  say?  We  can  make  that 
an  excuse." 

"That's  it,"  purred  the  doctor. 

He  rode  round  to  Loo's  with  the  order. 

"Here's  a  gleam  of  light,"  he  cried.  "Medical  extras 
—  beef-tea,  eggs,  and  milk.  Take  it  round  to  Mr.  Starkie 
now  —  and  don't  say  I  got  it  for  you." 


TEDDY  RETURNS  HOME  299 

Loo  went. 

Half-an-hour  later  she  was  round  at  Doctor  English's. 

Mr.  Starkie  had  refused  to  grant  the  order. 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Mrs.  Hankey,"  he  had  said.  "  The  right 
place  for  your  husband  is  in  the  infirmary  —  for  his  sake 
and  your  own." 


XXXIH 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RAZOR 

The  soul  of  Teddy  Hankey  was  going  down  in  the  deeps 
of  the  ocean-city  that  moaned  and  muttered  in  league- 
long  desolation  all  about  him. 

He  lay  like  a  corpse  with  living  eyes  on  a  piece  of  sack- 
ing filled  with  straw  that  served  for  mattress  on  the  rusty 
ruin  of  a  bedstead  projecting  its  gaunt  framework  on 
every  side.  And  over  his  phantom-body  an  old  skirt  of 
Loo's,  that  was  all  the  blanket  the  bed  knew,  was  drawn. 

Day  and  night  he  lay  thus  in  shirt  and  trousers,  looking 
into  the  distance,  always  looking. 

The  flame  was  in  his  cheek,  and  the  light  in  his  eye. 

He  looked  like  a  ghost  on  fire. 

When  Loo  addressed  him,  he  did  not  answer,  and  when 
she  brought  Meg  into  the  room  he  closed  his  eyes  and 
frowned. 

On  the  second  day  Loo  summoned  her  one  friend  — 
Mrs.  Baxter  —  from  across  the  way. 

"Seems  as  if  he  saw  something,"  said  the  perturbed 
woman.     "And  he  don't  speak.     Queer-like." 

The  two  women  stood  in  the  door  and  looked.    Teddy 

soo  » 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RAZOR  301 

lay  in  his  gray  shirt  on  the  mattress  of  old  brown  sacking, 
one  hand  behind  his  flaming  head,  and  gazed  into  the 
Future  with  seeing  eyes. 

Loo  bent  over  him. 

"'Ello,  old  man,"  she  said  rather  loudly.  "'Ow  are 
you?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  answered  quietly. 

The  two  women  crept  down  the  stairs. 

"What  d'ye  make  of  him,  Liz?  "  asked  Loo,  apron  to  her 
lips,  and  tears  streaming  down  her  face. 

The  other  shook  a  sympathetic  head. 

"He  looks  bright,"  she  said,  "burning  bright.  Like 
he  was  on  fire." 

"So  he  is,"  said  Loo;  "burning  away." 

For  three  days  he  lay  thus  in  bed,  saying  nothing.  And 
he  grew  always  more  hollow,  more  transparent. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  third  night,  when  the  great  city 
at  last  had  gone  to  sleep  about  her,  a  sudden  horror  seized 
Loo:  the  man  at  her  side  seemed  so  still.  She  rose  and 
lighting  a  match  bent  over  him. 

He  lay  just  as  in  the  day,  his  eyes  wide  and  brilliant. 

"Dad,"  she  said. 

He  nodded;  and  she  thought  his  eyes  smiled  at  her. 

The  bitterness  seemed  fading  out  of  him. 

The  woman  in  her  felt  it  and  kissed  him. 

"Go  to  sleep,  old  man,"  she  said. 

He  shook  a  silent  head. 


302  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

And  when  she  woke  next  morning,  he  was  still  lying 
there  with  the  same  wide  and  seeing  eyes. 

Swiney  sent  him  a  few  cigarettes:  he  did  not  smoke 
them.  Doctor  English  dropped  him  a  paper:  he  did  not 
read  it. 

"Don't  you  care  about  nothing,  dad?"  asked  Loo. 

He  stared  into  the  Future. 

"You  leave  me  alone,"  he  said  quietly.  "I'm  all 
right." 

All  day  he  lay  thus,  the  windows  wide,  and  hearkened 
to  the  huge  city  roaring  and  rumbling  on  its  callous  way; 
and  he  ate  nothing. 

"Like  a  spirit,"  said  Loo.     "And  looks  like  one." 

A  strange  transformation  was  taking  place  within  him. 
He  was  becoming  transfigured.  A  cold  white  light  shone 
through  the  darkness  of  his  flesh.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a 
strange,  unearthly  glitter.  And  he  was  quiet,  so  quiet. 
It  was  as  though  he  was  gathering  his  forces  for  a 
spring. 

On  the  fourth  morning  he  began  to  stir. 

His  eyes  wandered  round  the  room,  seeking. 

At  length  he  asked, 

"Where's  Meg?" 

"At  school,  dad,"  said  Loo,  bending  over  him,  and 
speaking  rather  loudly.  She  had  a  sense  that  he  was 
drawing  away  from  her.     "They're  feeding  her  there." 

A  cloud  darkened  the  sick  man's  face. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RAZOR  303 

"She  don't  want  feedin',"  he  said. 

Loo  smiled. 

"And  how'll  she  live  then,  old  man?" 

The  dying  father  wagged  his  head. 

"Same  as  me,"  he  muttered. 

Later  Loo  put  on  her  hat,  and  went  out  to  look  for 
work. 

When  Mrs.  Baxter  came  to  Teddy  at  midday,  he  asked 
her  if  she  had  seen  Meg. 

She  answered  no. 

"Send  her  along  when  you  see  her,"  the  sick  man 
croaked.     "I  got  something  for  her." 

That  afternoon  a  young  man  knocked  at  the  door. 

He  was  in  a  straw  hat  and  quietly  dressed.  His  large 
head  was  covered  with  thick  soft  woolly  hair  and  there  was 
something  about  him  of  the  awkwardness  and  innocence 
of  a  puppy. 

In  his  hand  was  a  pocket-book  and  some  case-papers. 

There  was  no  answer  to  his  knock,  and  at  last  he  turned 
the  handle  and  peeped  in. 

The  room  was  squalid  and  very  bare.  There  was  little 
furniture  in  it  but  a  broken  cube-sugar  box,  rubbish,  orna- 
ments, and  a  couple  of  flimsy  curtains.  And  about  the 
house  was  the  peculiar  smell  which  the  young  man  was 
already  beginning  to  associate  with  destitution. 

In  a  dusky  kitchen  beyond  a  man  was  sitting  on  a 


304  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

broken-down  chair  under  a  gas-jet  —  the  only  thing  that 
seemed  to  live  in  the  house. 

He  sat  before  the  fireplace  in  which  was  no  fire,  and 
shivered.  Something  that  looked  like  an  old  skirt  was 
wrapped  about  his  head  and  shoulders.  His  gray  stock- 
inged toes  were  on  the  fender;  and  his  claw-like  hand  held 
a  razor  and  sharpened  it  caressingly. 

"Is  that  Meg?"  came  a  voice  from  under  a  cloud.  "I 
want  you." 

The  young  man  coughed. 

A  burning  skeleton,  his  red  head  skirt-wrapped,  turned 
hollow,  blazing  eyes  upon  him. 

The  young  man  was  a  rowing  Blue;  but  there  was 
something  about  this  death's  head  peeping  out  of  a  cloud 
that  appalled  him.  He  was  in  the  presence  of  something 
he  did  not  understand. 

Then  he  took  courage  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  visitor  from  the 
Charity  Organization  Society.  I'm  afraid  you're  having 
a  bad  time.     I  thought  perhaps  I  could  help  you." 

The  skeleton  with  the  long  thin  neck  and  hollow,  blazing 
eyes,  huddled  in  his  skirt,  shook  a  solemn  head. 

"I  don't  want  no  'elp,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  from  another 
world.     "I'm  past  'elp." 

"Oh,  come!"  said  the  young  man,  feigning  a  cheerful- 
ness he  did  not  feel.  "Never  say  die.  What's  the 
matter." 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RAZOR  305 

The  skeleton  eyed  him  solemnly. 

"  I'm  dead,"  he  said.     "  That's  what's  the  matter." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  replied  the  young  man  some- 
what lamely. 

"I'm  dead,"  continued  the  other,  and  licked  his  with- 
ered lips.     "I'm  going  back." 

"Where?"  asked  the  young  man,  nervously. 

The  skeleton  jerked  toward  the  door. 

"Outside,"  he  whispered.  "Too  tight  here  altogether. 
Too  many  of  'em.  I'm  squeezed"  —  he  gasped  — 
"squeezed."  He  began  to  cough  and  choke  and 
splutter. 

Outside  in  the  street  the  young  man  made  a  note  : 

23  Archery  Row.  Maniac.  Looked  in  last  stages  of  consumption. 
Home  very  bare.     Case  for  lunacy  authorities. 

Farther  down  the  street  he  met  Mr.  Starkie  and  re- 
counted his  interview. 

"I  know,"  replied  the  Relieving  Officer  quietly.  "It's 
a  bad  case.  He  won't  face  the  infirmary.  We've  got  to 
make  him.     Must  be  a  bit  brutal  sometimes." 

"I  never  saw  such  a  ghastly  sight,"  said  the  young  man. 
"A  skeleton  sharpening  a  razor." 

Mr.  Starkie  turned  gray. 

"Sharpening  a  razor!"  he  muttered  swiftly.  "Did  you 
take  it  from  him?" 


306  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"No,"  said  the  young  man.  "It  was  no  business  of 
mine." 

Mr.  Starkie  walked  on  gravely. 

"But  you  should  have  done  so!" 

"Well,  you  can  go  round  and  do  it  yourself,"  retorted 
the  young  man.     "It's  only  just  down  the  street." 


XXXIV 
THE  OLD  FRIEND 

Loo's  health  was  returning  to  her  with  a  rush. 

She  was  young;  she  was  strong;  and  the  weight  and 
trouble  of  the  days  before  her  baby  had  been  born  were 
passing  from  her  like  a  cloud. 

Meg  was  being  fed  at  school.  The  child  was  hourly 
resuming  her  old  self,  good  alike  to  see  and  feel  and  hear. 
Miss  English  was  returning  home.  Work  was  within  her 
grasp,  and  with  it  Salvation. 

It  was  almost  the  old  Loo  who  rushed  into  the  house 
that  evening. 

"I  got  work  at  Northweirs,"  she  cried  joyfully. 
"Cheer,  Ted!"  —  and  stopped  suddenly. 

The  sick  man,  huddling  over  the  empty  grate,  had 
slipped  a  razor  into  his  pocket. 

She  saw  it  and  flashed. 

"Hand  that  here!"  she  ordered,  taking  command  once 
more. 

He  rolled  up  his  eyes,  resisting  her. 

It  was  a  battle  between  the  Spirit  of  Life  and  the  Spirit 
of  Death,  and  the  former  conquered. 

307 


308  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  surrendered  the  weapon. 

Her  victory  won,  she  relaxed. 

"What  ye  want  with  that,  ye  silly?"  she  scolded. 

He  said  nothing,  sitting  beneath  her,  slight  as  a  lad 
and  sullen. 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  half  angry,  half 
amused.  He  was  a  naughty  boy.  She  was  his  mother 
and  his  master,  and  by  no  means  afraid  of  him.  Physi- 
cally and  morally  she  was  twice  the  man. 

Then  Meg  entered. 

Teddy  turned  his  eyes  on  her. 

"  You're  late,  my  maid,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  been  look- 
ing for  you." 

Loo  packed  the  child  off  to  bed  at  once. 

Her  father's  eyes  followed  her  little  clambering  figure 
up  the  stairs. 

There  was  no  gas  or  light  of  fire  in  the  kitchen;  and  the 
man  and  woman  sat  over  against  each  other  in  the  dark- 
ness throughout  the  evening. 

Loo,  after  her  long  day's  search  for  work,  snoozed. 
She  woke  to  hear  her  husband  moving  in  the  child's  room 
overhead. 

He  had  crept  upstairs  in  his  stockings  while  she 
dozed. 

She  rushed  up  after  him  with  panting  heart. 

The  scarecrow  figure  of  her  husband  stood,  with  a  lighted 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  309 

match  in  his  hand,  bending  over  the  cot  in  which  Meg 
slept. 

Then  he  bent  and  kissed  his  child. 

A  sudden  revulsion  overcame  Loo. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  thin  arm. 

"  Let  the  child  be,  old  man,"  she  said  tenderly.  "  She's 
tired." 

He  withdrew  reluctantly. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "She  wants  a  rest  —  same  as  me." 

Next  morning  she  brought  him  a  bit  of  bread  and  drip- 
pings as  he  lay. 

Then  she  put  on  her  hat. 

"I'm  off  to  work  now,  Ted,"  she  said.  "I  daresay 
Mrs.  Baxter  '11  bring  you  a  mug  of  something  hot  at  din- 
ner.    And  I'll  get  you  a  nice  kipper  for  tea." 

Before  she  left  the  house  she  peeped  in  at  him  again. 

He  was  up  and  groping  about  the  room,  searching  as 
one  in  a  dream. 

She  watched  him  with  a  certain  grim  humour. 

"No  good  lookin',  old  man,"  she  said  firmly.  "That's 
in  my  pocket." 

He  moved  about  the  room. 

"When'UMegbeback?" 

"Not  till  evening." 

Then  she  went  out. 

He  followed  her  to  the  door. 


310  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

A  little  way  down  the  street  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him. 

He  was  gazing  at  her  with  wistful  eyes. 

She  saw  it  and  waved. 

He  lifted  his  little  old  face  to  hers  like  a  child. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?"  she  asked,  tender  as  a  lover. 

"Give  us  a  kiss,  Loo,"  he  gulped. 

Swift  as  a  bird  she  sped  back  and  kissed  him. 

"Cheer,  old  man!"  she  cried.  "We're  through  the 
worst  now." 

He  hung  a  moment  on  her  neck. 

"You  ain't  a-comin',  Loo?"  he  muttered  in  her  ear. 

She  held  back  from  him. 

"Where  to,  dad?" 

The  sound  of  a  steamer  hooting  in  the  river  hard  by 
smote  his  ear. 

He  held  up  a  hushing  finger,  and  listened,  nodding. 

"She's  a-callin',"  he  said. 

When  she  had  vanished  round  the  corner  he  lifted  his 
hollow  face  to  the  low  gray  sky. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  the  day  he  came  out  of  prison 
that  he  had  felt  the  breath  of  heaven  upon  him. 

Now  he  stood  in  the  door  in  his  shirt  and  trousers  and 
stockinged  feet,  a  desolate  wind-blown  wisp  of  mortality, 
gazing  up  into  immensity,  the  great  city  rumbling  all 
around  him. 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  Sll 

He  seemed  to  be  seeking  something,  and  not  finding  it. 
His  eyes  wandered  hither  and  thither.  There  was  no 
green  of  tree,  no  rich  brown  of  naked  earth,  no  shine  of 
rushing  water  on  which  to  rest  them.  Only  the  sky  drift- 
ing dully  by  overhead  was  there  to  testify  that  somewhere 
far  away  the  great  natural  things,  elemental  and  eternal, 
lived  and  moved  and  had  their  being. 

Down  the  street  a  cage  upon  the  wall  caught  his 
eye. 

He  paddled  toward  it,  walking  gingerly  on  stockinged 
feet,  one  hand  against  the  wall,  and  stood  beneath  the 
cage  at  gaze. 

It  held  a  thrush,  black-eyed,  speckle-breasted,  and 
beautiful. 

Teddy  eyed  it. 

"He's  come  back  then,"  he  said  in  that  remote  and 
mystic  vein  of  his. 

The  woman  of  the  house  came  out  to  him. 

"  That's  a  new  one,"  she  said.  "  That's  a  thrush.  The 
lark's  dead." 

Teddy  stood  beneath  with  lifted  face  and  eyes  that 
dreamed. 

"He's  come  back  to  his  cage,"  he  said.  "Can't  keep 
away,  ye  see,  when  he  does  get  out,"  and  added  shrewdly, 
"but  he's  had  his  'oliday.  It's  new  like  to  him  again. 
He  ain't  so  tired." 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  and  was  afraid. 


312  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"There's  the  postman  gone  to  your  door,  Mr.  Hankey," 
she  said  gently. 

The  scarecrow  paddled  back  along  the  wall. 

Within  his  door  he  found  a  blue  envelope  lying.  He 
opened  it.  It  was  from  the  Mudsey  Artisans'  Dwellings 
Company,  giving  him  a  week's  notice. 

Teddy  read  it. 

"Amen!"  he  said,  unmoved. 

Going  to  the  street,  he  begged  a  match  of  a  passerby, 
and  returning  to  his  house,  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

Taking  a  cube  sugar-box  that  had  served  as  a  chair  he 
broke  it  up,  laid  it  in  the  fireplace,  and  set  it  alight. 

His  exertion  had  tired  him,  and  a  great  craving  of 
hunger  seized  him. 

He  went  to  the  cupboard.  It  was  bare  save  for  a  little 
casual  crockery,  and  the  old  teapot  with  the  broken  spout 
that  had  once  chinked  to  gold. 

On  the  sill  of  the  kitchen-window  was  a  row  of  empty 
bottles  of  lung-tonic. 

He  broke  one  of  them  and  licked  the  inside  of  it  with 
his  tongue,  and  another  and  another. 

His  eyes  wandered  round  the  home  that  had  been  his 
for  years  and  was  his  no  longer. 

There  were  no  tears  in  his  eyes  or  heart. 

He  was  past  weeping,  past  pain.  If  there  was  suffering 
in  his  face,  there  was  beauty  too. 

He  stoked  the  fire  and  crept  upstairs  on  his  hands  and 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  313 

feet.  There  was  no  one  to  see;  and  he  could  confess  his 
weakness  to  himself  and  to  his  Maker  without  fear. 

Stripping  the  old  skirt  that  was  its  only  blanket  off  the 
bed,  he  took  the  bolster  and  pillow,  and  lugging  them 
downstairs,  piled  them  on  the  fire.  In  the  parlour  he  tore 
down  the  curtains  and  added  them  to  the  blaze. 

Once  again  he  climbed  the  stairs,  panting  and  sweating 
as  he  did  so,  and  the  smoke  from  the  kitchen  pursued  him 
and  wreathed  mistily  about  him. 

There  was  nothing  now  in  the  bedroom  but  the  old 
sackcloth  palliasse  upon  the  gaunt  bedstead,  and  in  the 
corner  Loo's  tin  box  in  which  she  had  kept  her  clothes. 

He  opened  it.  Within  the  hollow  of  it  was  a  pair  of 
stockings  and  one  small  undergarment,  new-washed  and 
pitifully  alone.  He  took  it  up  and  gazed  at  it.  Some- 
thing seized  him  by  the  throat,  and  he  began  to  tremble. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  gasped.  Going  to  the 
window  he  gazed  out;  but  he  could  not  see  across  the  street. 

Then  he  laid  the  garment  on  the  palliasse,  spread  it 
abroad  delicately,  smoothed  it  with  tender  hands,  and 
pulled  down  the  blind. 

In  the  dusk  the  garment  lay  on  the  bed  as  one  crucified. 

He  bent  over  it  and  kissed  it. 

Then  he  went  out  quietly  and  tried  the  door  of  Meg's 
room  opposite. 

It  was  locked. 

Quietly  he  crept  downstairs. 


314  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

There  was  a  smother  of  smoke  in  the  kitchen.  Pillow, 
bolster,  skirt,  and  curtains  were  smouldering  away  in  the 
grate  and  on  the  floor. 

He  shut  the  back  door  and  pulled  down  the  blinds  of 
kitchen  and  parlour. 

Then  he  made  a  clean  sweep  of  everything  below  — 
crockery,  pictures,  tea-leaves,  broken  chairs,  ornaments 
piled  in  a  refuse-heap  upon  the  kitchen  floor  alongside 
the  smouldering  bedding. 

Loo's  kitchen,  once  bright  with  shining  pans  and  fair 
china,  looked  like  an  ash-pit  and  smelt  like  a  heap  of  gar- 
bage upon  fire. 

Teddy  retreated  into  the  parlour. 

It  was  now  bare  as  earth.  The  solitary  article  left  on 
its  walls  was  a  cheap  coloured  print  of  the  Good  Shepherd. 

Teddy  stood  before  it,  staring.  In  the  dusk  he  could 
see  the  golden  halo  surrounding  the  figure's  head. 

"I'll  leave  you,"  he  muttered.      "You're  a  friend." 

Then  he  went  into  the  kitchen  and  sat  coughing  in  a 
shroud  of  smoke  over  the  smouldering  ruins  of  his  home. 

The  hours  passed;  and  again  he  crept  to  the  door  of  his 
house. 

Church-bells  were  ringing,  and  a  group  of  young  men 
from  the  University  Mission  near  by  passed  laughing. 
He  recognized  them  by  their  clothes  and  bearing.  They 
had  the  size  and  strength  of  the  class  from  whom  physical 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  315 

exertion  is  not  demanded.  And  above  all  they  were 
fuU-fed. 

"Goin*  to  pray  to  Jesus?"  he  asked  quietly  as  they 
passed  him. 

One  of  them,  fresh-faced  and  fair,  stopped. 

"Yes;  and  I  wish  you  were  too,  old  chap,"  he  said 
heartily. 

Teddy  bent  a  mild  and  ghastly  eye  upon  him. 

*  Perhaps  I  am,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  changed  colour  and  passed  on. 

"Did  you  see  that  chap's  face?"  he  muttered  to  his 
friends,  who  looked  behind  them. 

It  was  drawing  into  evening  now,  and  the  low  gray  sky 
was  suffused  with  a  tint  of  pearls  and  roses. 

The  tender  light  fell  on  the  man  in  the  door  and  blessed 
him  as  he  stared. 

Teddy  lifted  his  face  from  the  solid  earth  to  the  nebu- 
lous heavens. 

The  light  ebbed  and  flowed  in  his  eyes.  When  it 
ebbed  they  were  left  pale  and  dull;  when  it  flowed  they 
glittered  strangely. 

He  stood  in  his  door,  a  ragged  little  scarecrow  of  a  man, 
the  wisps  of  smoke  eddying  about  him,  munching  his  lips, 
and  making  up  his  soul. 

Mrs.  Baxter  was  nursing  her  baby  in  the  door  opposite. 

"You  ain't  seen  our  Meg?"  he  called  across  to  her 
huskily. 


316  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"There  she  is  up  the  street,  Mr.  Hankey.  See  — 
playing  with  the  children." 

He  turned  his  hollow,  blazing  eyes  the  way  she  pointed. 
Meg  was  playing  the  game  the  children  call  ping-pong, 
hopping  from  one  square  to  another,  her  fair  hair  dancing, 
and  face  and  eyes  alive  with  joy. 

There  was  little  sunlight;  but  Teddy  put  his  hand  to  his 
brow  and  called  feebly. 

Mrs.  Baxter  uplifted  her  strong  young  voice  to  aid  him. 

"  Meg ! "  she  called.     " Daddy  wants  you  to  come  in." 

The  child  came  skipping. 

Her  father  eyed  her  wistfully. 

"'Ave  you  'ad  enough,  Meg?"  he  asked  gravely. , 

"She'd  like  to  be  out  in  the  sun  a  bit  yet,  I  daresay," 
said  Mrs.  Baxter.     "It's  early  to  go  in." 

"Time  enough,"  said  Teddy  solemnly.  "Better  sooner 
than  later." 

"Just  when  the  sun's  coming  out,"  continued  Mrs. 
Baxter,  standing  in  a  blaze  of  it. 

"I  can't  see  no  sun,"  said  Teddy,  lifting  his  face  like  a 
blind  man  to  the  blaze  and  feeling  for  it  with  spectral 
claws.  "There's  sun  somewhere.  'Tain't  here,  though." 
He  turned  to  the  child.  "  'Alf  a  mo,  lovey.  I  must  just 
finish  up  inside.     Then  I'll  be  ready." 

He  reentered  his  house. 

In  the  kitchen  the  refuse-heap  still  smouldered  and 
stank. 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  317 

On  the  floor  the  blue  notice  to  quit  floated  in  the  smoke. 

He  picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  the  table  —  the  one 
article  of  furniture  that  had  been  too  solid  to  break  up  and 
burn. 

On  it  he  stood  the  broken-spouted  teapot  that  had  held 
the  gold  which  was  to  have  bridged  for  him  the  Abyss  into 
which  he  had  now  fallen. 

A  sudden  curiosity  seized  him.  He  lifted  the  lid.  The 
old  teapot  was  full  to  the  brim  of  pawn-tickets. 

Behind  the  teapot  he  ranged  the  bottles  of  lung-tonic 
in  a  row. 

Then  from  the  smouldering  ash-heap  on  the  floor  he 
drew  a  charred  piece  of  wood. 

On  the  bare  parlour  wall  he  drew  a  rough  arrow-head 
that  pointed  to  the  river  and  scrawled, 

Dkar  Loo: 
This  way  when  you've  had  enough.     Meg  and  me  are  going  on. 

Your  loving  husband, 

Ted. 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  street,  closing  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

A  battered  billycock  was  on  his  head. 

"Come  along,  lovey,"  he  said  tenderly. 

The  child  took  his  extended  hand,  and  the  two  started 
down  the  street. 

A  strange  figure  he  made,  that  dilapidated  little  man 
padding  gingerly  along  on  his  gray  stockinged  feet. 


318  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  was  in  his  shirt  and  trousers.  Stuck  comically 
upon  his  head  was  the  battered  billycock,  and  on  his  face 
a  strange  dignity. 

Men  and  women  came  to  their  doors  to  stare. 

They  sniggered  until  they  saw  his  face,  and  then  the 
snigger  died  suddenly. 

Teddy  passed  them  gravely  by. 

Meg  held  his  hand  and  danced  at  his  side. 

She  thought  it  a  huge  joke. 

"Funny  daddy,"  she  chuckled,  skipping  at  his  side 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  austere  tenderness. 

"Are  you  my  little  gal?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed  up  at  him  and  nodded. 

"Comin'  along,  ain't  you?" 

Again  she  nodded. 

He  gripped  her  hand. 

"Best  so,"  he  said.     "There's  no  room  here." 

Once  again  he  spoke. 

"You  like  the  river,  Meg?" 

"Yes,  daddy." 

He  nodded. 

"She's  our  friend.  Mum  said  that;  and  she  was  right. 
They  can't  hurt  you  there." 

A  little  crowd  of  children  began  to  patter  after  them 

Teddy  heard  them  and  turned. 

His  look  dispersed  them. 

There  was  no  need  of  word  or  wave. 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  319 

About  the  man  there  was  a  mild  terror,  a  kind  of  maj- 
esty that  did  not  fail  of  its  effect. 

The  pair  turned  into  Mudsey  Wall. 

"Say  good-bye,  lovey,"  said  Teddy. 

The  bewildered  child  looked  up  the  street. 

"There's  mum!"  she  cried,  hanging  back. 

"She'll    follow,"     said    Teddy,     stiffening.     "Come, 
lovey!"  and  led  down  the  Wall. 

It  was  dark  and  narrow  there  as  a  grave,  the  ware- 
houses high  on  either  side.  Here  and  there  the  river 
gleamed  through  an  archway  on  their  left.  Teddy  peeped 
at  it. 

"  There  she  is ! "  he  cried,  white  as  the  water.  He  began 
to  kindle.     A  sudden  fire  spurted  to  his  eye. 

Meg  hung  upon  her  daddy's  hand  and  whimpered. 

Suddenly  he  bent,  caught  her  up  into  his  arms,  and 
staggered  swiftly  down  the  Wall. 

The  child  felt  herself  pinioned  and  began  to  kick  and 
scream. 

Her  father  clapped  a  hand  over  her  mouth.  Above  the 
thin  fingers  that  pressed  into  her  face  and  made  white 
splodges  there,  her  frightened  eyes  peered  at  him. 

"Best  out  of  it,  my  little  girl,"  he  panted.  "More 
room  there!" 


XXXV 
DOCTOR  ENGLISH  LIES 

Doctor  English  was  walking  down  Farthing  Alley,  the 
evening  beautiful  about  him. 

A  few  weeks  since,  his  mother  had  died  quietly  in  her 
sleep  as  she  had  wished,  "  and  no  trouble  to  any  one,  my 
dear." 

He  had  been  with  her  that  last  evening.  The  old  lady 
would  not  die  until  he  came.  And  she  had  known  him, 
and  rejoiced  in  him,  this  big-browed,  mighty -boned  son  of 
hers,  gray  now  himself,  whom  she  had  born  of  her  little 
body  some  sixty  years  before.  She  had  blessed  him  with 
her  eyes,  loved  him,  laughed  with  him.  For  the  last  time 
they  had  enjoyed  together  the  old  jokes,  the  old  sweet 
communion;  and  he  had  entered  her  room  quietly  a  few 
hours  later  to  find  her  asleep  for  ever  and  smiling  still,  a 
tear  of  joy  bedewing  her  cheek,  and  the  Dawn  breaking 
wan  about  her  face. 

And  this  holy  sorrow,  while  it  had  deepened  his  own 
deep  heart,  had  established  him  in  the  sense  of  that  other 
Dawn,  wan  too  and  beautif  jl,  that  was  rushing  with  heal- 
ing on  its  wings  out  of  the  East  to  bring  light  to  the  mil- 


DOCTOR  ENGLISH  LIES  321 

lions  who  had  sat  through  centuries  in  darkness  and  in 
the  shadow  of  death. 

As  he  walked  down  the  lane  amidst  familiar  sights  and 
smells,  seeing  all  things  with  larger,  clearer,  more  loving 
eyes,  he  realized  as  he  had  never  realized  before  the  miracle 
that  had  been  wrought  in  Mudsey  in  his  thirty  years  of 
warfare  there. 

And  it  was  a  moral  and  not  a  material  change  that  he 
had  witnessed :  something  you  could  feel  rather  than  see. 

Mudsey  was  if  anything  poorer  than  when  he  first  came 
to  live  there.  The  leather  trade  was  all  but  dead;  the 
waterside  labour  always  more  desultory  and  casual.  The 
houses  were  on  the  whole  as  mean  and  dirty  now  as  then; 
the  courts  and  alleys  almost  as  noisome  to  eyes  and  nose; 
the  men  and  women  just  about  as  shabby;  the  children 
very  little  less  barefoot  and  blotchy. 

Yet  the  place  was  transfigured.  An  immense  and 
invisible  change  had  come  over  the  whole.  And  it  was 
clearly  not  a  change  of  circumstance;  it  was  a  change  of 
heart. 

In  those  far  days  Mudsey  was  brutal.  You  heard 
about  its  courts  and  alleys  horrible  sounds  by  night; 
and  you  saw  strange  and  dreadful  sights  by  day.  Fights 
between  women  were  common,  while  men  stood  round  and 
cheered.  That  a  girl  in  her  early  teens  should  be  led 
astray  was  simply  a  matter  for  laughter.  And  the 
pounding  to  death  of  dogs  and  cats  was  by  no  means  rare. 


322  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

In  those  days  Mudsey  was  emerging  from  the  Dark 
Ages,  as  some  mammoth  emerges  from  a  Slough  of  De- 
spond, the  slime  and  mud  trickling  down  its  old  gray  sides. 

He  walked  on  amid  his  memories. 

There  was  hardly  for  him  an  alley  or  courtyard  but 
brought  back  to  him  some  scene  of  those  bad  old  days, 
when  Brute  Force  reigned  everywhere,  master  crushing 
man,  man  crushing  woman,  and  woman  too  often  child. 

Out  of  that  window  in  Robert's  buildings  a  woman  had 
chucked  a  saucepan  of  boiling  water  at  him.  In  Pansy 
Alley  he  had  found  two  men  bricking  a  third  to  death  in 
the  small  hours  of  a  Sunday  morning.  Here  in  Rosemary 
Court  Levi's  gang  had  cornered  him  and  left  him  thankful 
for  sinews  hardened  for  years  in  the  football  field  and  on 
the  river. 

All  that  now  seems  so  far  away. 

There  was  plenty  of  misery  still,  but  help  was  coming. 
There  was  plenty  of  brutality  still,  but  it  was  passing 
away.  The  community  no  longer  turned  its  back  upon 
the  children  who  cried  to  it.  Rather  it  reached  out  loving 
if  feeble  hands  in  a  thousand  directions  to  seek  and  to  save. 

The  scream  of  a  woman,  shrill  and  terrible,  woke  him 
from  his  dreams. 

Some  distance  down  Mudsey  Wall  before  him  a  swarm 
of  excited  boys  made  a  knot  of  blackness  at  an  opening 


DOCTOR  ENGLISH  LIES  323 

that  led  down  to  the  river.  Women  were  rushing  down 
the  Wall  toward  them. 

He  took  to  his  legs  and  ran. 

A  boy  dived  past  him,  yelling, 

"Police!" 

A  white-faced  woman  looked  round  and  saw  him. 

"He's  drowning  her!"  she  screamed. 

The  big  doctor  raced  down  the  narrow  Wall,  flinging  off 
his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  loosening  his  collar  as  he  went. 

More  than  once  in  the  past  had  the  old  brown  river 
known  his  battling  body  as  he  snatched  her  prey  out  of  her 
swift,  fierce  clutch. 

With  the  brutality  that  distinguished  him  upon  occa- 
sions he  forced  his  way  through  the  crowd  of  women  and 
children  surging  at  the  opening.  Some  of  them  clung  to 
him  hysterically.     One  hid  her  face  on  his  chest. 

"Oh,  doctor,  dear!"  she  whimpered. 

"Let  go,  you  ass!"  he  shouted  roughly,  and  shook  her 
off. 

Stone  steps  led  down  to  a  narrow  strip  of  beach. 

He  ran  down  them,  through  a  straggling  crowd,  casting 
off  his  shoes. 

As  he  did  so,  he  had  a  vision  of  the  river  racing  by,  a 
passing  barge  with  a  figure  on  the  stern  of  it  shouting 
vehemently,  and  one  or  two  women  wading  clumsily  out 
into  the  swift  stream,  while  others  flapped  and  splashed 
and  screamed  at  the  edge. 


324  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

A  man  was  floundering  in  the  water  farther  out;  and 
there  was  something  underneath  him  that  gasped  and 
wailed  in  tiny  treble  and  struggled  pitifully. 

Then  both  disappeared  beneath  the  water;  and  only  the 
man's  back  and  braces  showed  like  a  tiny  tide-sluiced 
island  a  few  yards  from  the  shore. 

The  doctor  waded  into  the  cold  water. 

"Steady,  Ted!"  he  said,  calm  and  stern. 

The  floundering  figure  stood  up,  the  water  to  his  chest. 
He  looked  absurd.  His  mouth  was  wide,  his  eyes  blink- 
ing. The  red  hair  was  plastered  all  about  his  skull,  and 
the  water  streaming  from  it;  and  he  was  panting  hugely. 
He  had  the  stupid  look  of  a  man  waked  swiftly  and  as  yet 
not  himself. 

"'Ellow!"  he  gasped,  and  stared  at  the  other  through 
glazed  eyes  across  the  few  feet  of  swift  intervening 
water. 

In  his  arms  was  the  child  with  tight-screwed  face  and 
open  mouth  spluttering  painfully  for  breath  and  whimper- 
ing between  her  gasps. 

"Let  me  have  her!"  said  the  doctor,  quiet  and  authori- 
tative as  at  the  bedside  of  a  patient. 

Teddy  surrendered  his  burden  without  a  word.  The 
doctor  took  the  limp  rag  of  a  child  in  his  arms  and  waded 
back  to  the  shore. 

Meg  gasped,  coughed,  whimpered,  made  strange,  wry 
faces. 


DOCTOR  ENGLISH  LIES  325 

The  doctor  smiled  down  at  her,  as  he  hugged  her  tight. 

"I've  got  you,  Meg,"  he  said.  "You're  all  right.  It 
was  only  a  joke  of  daddy's. "  He  turned  his  head.  "  Come 
on,  old  man,"  he  called. 

His  burden  in  his  arms,  he  climbed  the  steps. 

Teddy  followed  him,  dripping. 

The  doctor  butted  his  way  through  the  clinging  crowd 
at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"Shame!"  called  a  woman. 

"Murder!"  muttered  another. 

"Lynch  him!"  groaned  a  third. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hankey!"  cried  a  fourth. 

A  man's  masterful  voice  was  heard.  It  was  Fat  Chops, 
the  policeman. 

"Hullo,  sir!  what's  all  this?" 

The  doctor  marched  on  remorselessly,  breathing 
deep. 

"Plucky  rescue!"  he  gasped.  "Saved  the  child.  An- 
other minute  he'd  have  been  too  late." 

Fat  Chops  stared. 

"Why,  they  told  me  he  was  drowning  her,"  he 
cried. 

The  doctor  snorted. 

"  Like  'em,"  he  said.     "  Come  on,  Ted." 

He  marched  dripping  down  the  Wall,  Teddy  trotting 
at  his  heels,  and  a  patter  of  children  behind  them. 

Fat  Chops  dropped  behind  to  harangue  the  women. 


326  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Now  then!  Who  ye  been  kiddin'?"  his  big  voice 
came,  half  angry,  half  relieved. 

The  little  procession  turned  down  out  of  the  narrow 
Wall  into  broad  Archery  Row. 

Loo  was  racing  down  the  Row  toward  them,  her  face 
white  and  set. 

The  doctor  yodled  cheerfully. 

"She's  all  right,  mother,"  he  called,  and  hearing  Fat 
Chops  behind  still  arguing  with  the  women,  "Tumbled 
in.     Her  father  saved  her  just  in  time." 

"Drowned  her,  ye  mean!"  cried  a  woman. 

"Boo!"  jeered  another. 

"Ought  to  be  drowned  'isself !"  said  a  third. 

Meg  saw  her  mother  and  waved,  her  little  face  muddy 
and  streaming  still. 

"Mum!"  she  called. 

"Is  she  all  right?"  gasped  Loo. 

"Fit  as  a  fiddle,"  panted  the  doctor.  "Aren't  you, 
sweetheart?" 

The  child  smiled,  and  the  doctor  surrendered  her  to  her 
mother. 

"Give  her  a  glass  of  hot  milk  and  put  her  to  bed  in 
blankets,  and  she'll  be  as  right  as  rain  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," he  panted;  and  he  went  back  to  the  corner  to  lie 
magnificently  to  the  policeman. 

Father,  mother,  and  child  pursued  their  homeward 
way. 


DOCTOR  ENGLISH  LIES  327 

"Oh,  Ted!"  was  all  the  mother  said. 
The  street  stood  in  their  doors  to  watch  as  the  family 
trailed  dripping  by. 
The  woman  with  the  caged  bird  peeped  out. 
Teddy  lifted  dull  eyes  to  her  as  he  passed. 
"  They  beat  me ! "  he  said.     "  I  ain't  got  out." 


BOOK   III 
HIS  RESURRECTION 


He  becometh  an  understanding  dream  andfareth  into  the  world  beyond. 
Upanishads. 


XXXVI 
THE  RESURRECTION  MORNING 

Every  Hell  has  a  bottom;  but  Heaven  knows  no  roof. 

That  night  the  soul  of  Teddy  Hankey  touched  earth 
and  thenceforth  began  to  rise  on  fluttering  wings. 

It  was  in  the  hour  before  the  dawn  that  the  change  took 
place. 

In  the  night  there  had  been  storms.  Now  the  rain- 
scuds  had  ceased  to  thrash  the  window;  and  there  was  a 
dismal  glimmer  of  moon  on  the  leagues  of  shining  roofs 
and  the  river  that  ran  in  snake-like  silvery  loops  through 
the  murky  heart  of  the  city. 

Teddy  was  aware  of  the  change.  Something  seemed  to 
give  way  within  him.  The  ache  and  strain  that  had 
darkened  his  life  for  weeks  past  eased  off  very  quietly. 

He  had  touched  bottom  and  was  rising  slowly  out  of  the 
deeps  toward  the  light. 

Very  still  he  lay  and  as  it  were  watched  the  miracle 
that  was  being  wrought  within  his  spectral  body. 

Something  was  going  from  him,  something  coming  to 
him.  His  life  was  oozing  away  and  coming  again.  The 
old  dead-weight  on  his  heart  was  lifting  at  last.     The  top 

331 


332  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

had  been  taken  off  his  cage.  He  began  to  soar  on  weak 
if  joyful  wings. 

With  an  effort  he  roused  himself. 

"Loo!"  he  whispered  in  smothered  voice. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  He  listened  to  her  even,  regu- 
lar breathing. 

Loo  was  tired;  Loo  needed  her  rest.  He  was  tired  him- 
self; but  he  could  wait. 

He  lay  quite  still  in  the  darkness,  only  his  eyelids  mov- 
ing, watching  and  waiting. 

Some  one  had  rolled  away  the  stone  from  the  mouth  of 
the  tomb;  and  his  soul,  white-robed  and  wonderful,  was 
stealing  forth. 

In  the  darkness  he  smiled  to  himself;  he  was  so 
happy. 

His  heart,  long  dry,  began  to  brim  with  love. 

In  the  little  room  next  door  he  heard  Meg  stirring  in  her 
cot. 

Outside  a  sea-bird  from  the  river  croaked  in  the  night 
overhead.  A  far  cart  creaked  and  rumbled;  and  the  great 
city  turned  in  its  sleep. 

Teddy  nodded  as  he  heard. 

He  felt  wonderfully  kind  to  all  the  world,  and  not  least 
to  the  old  city  ...  his  friend  and  enemy  of  so  many 
years  .  .  .  the  million-souled  city  with  the  streak  of 
steel  running  through  the  heart  of  it  .  .  .  this  old 
city  that  he  loved  though  it  had  slain  him. 


THE  RESURRECTION  MORNING        333 

The  dawn  was  at  hand. 

There  was  a  faint  glimmer  now  through  the  blind. 

Teddy  lay  with  eyes  that  blinked  in  the  darkness,  and 
watched  the  light  grow. 

"Come  on!"  he  whispered. 

The  light  brought  with  it  a  huge  vague  hope  that  lifted 
him  heavenward  on  its  crest. 

He  was  wonderfully  happy,  and  strangely  tired. 

Once  or  twice  he  sighed  —  whether  from  weariness  or 
joy,  who  shall  say? 

His  fight  was  over.  He  was  doffing  his  battle-dusty 
armour  and  entering  into  a  great  peace.  And  the  symbol 
of  his  defeat  that  was  a  victory  was  the  red  thread  that 
streamed  from  his  mouth  and  lay  across  his  chin  and  ran 
down  and  gathered  in  the  hollow  of  his  throat  and  spread 
on  to  his  phantom  chest  in  dark  flood  there  and  trickled  on 
to  the  sackcloth  palliasse  and  dripped,  dripped  on  to  the 
floor. 

He  put  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  when  he  withdrew  it, 
it  was  wet. 

Teddy  knew  what  was  happening,  and  he  was  not 
afraid. 

He  was  too  happy,  and  too  tired. 

Then  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  immediately  the  faces  of  the 
three  women  who  had  been  Life  to  him  because  they  had 
been  Love,  rose  before  him  as  from  the  deeps  of  dark 
waters  and  floated  on  the  surface  of  his  mind. 


334  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Mum,"  he  muttered;  "Loo,"  and  "Meg,"  and  held 
out  his  hands  in  the  darkness. 

The  tears  of  joy  and  weakness  poured  down  his  face  as 
he  dropped  his  hands;  for  he  was  too  weak  to  hold  them 
out  long,  and  he  smiled  to  himself. 

The  darkness  was  drifting  out  of  his  life,  and  the  light 
was  pouring  into  it. 

Yesterday  —  or  was  it  millions  of  years  ago?  Meg  in 
his  arms,  he  had  snatched  at  that  light,  and  because  he  had 
snatched  it  had  not  come. 

Now  it  was  coming  of  itself  unsought. 

The  joy  of  it  was  great  and  growing,  and  marred  only 
by  a  dim  sense  that  it  was  somehow  selfish  and  that  he 
must  struggle,  struggle  on. 

There  was  no  effort  required  of  him,  no  battle,  no  will. 

That  was  all  behind  him.  He  had  but  to  lean  back  in 
perfect  faith  upon  the  broad  and  darkling  bosom  of  that 
unseen  tide  to  be  borne  toward  the  haven  awaiting  him 
beyond. 

The  ineffable  peace  and  beauty  of  it  filled  his  soul. 
He  would  not  stir.  He  would  not  even  rouse  dear  Loo 
to  tell  her  he  was  dying. 

Outside  the  mammoth  city  began  to  stir,  to  yawn,  to 
rub  its  eyes,  and  stretch  league-long  limbs  under  dun 
skies. 

One  by  one  its  million  strings  of  light  went  out.     It 


THE  RESURRECTION  MORNING  335 

lay  squandered  in  the  blear-eyed  dawn  beside  the  slug- 
gish river  that  moved  shining  through  its  still  midst, 
creeping  seaward,  swirling  silvery-brown  against  the 
arches  of  huge  bridges,  slopping  against  the  black  sides  of 
ships,  slipping  along  deserted  wharves,  and  tumbling  the 
body  of  a  blue-skirted  girl  who  last  night  had  committed 
her  body  to  its  cold  keeping. 

With  groans,  oaths,  mutterings,  the  songless  city  was 
setting  once  more  about  the  whole  vast  business  of  living. 

A  milkman  came  round  clanking;  down  in  the  street, 
doors  opened;  and  the  dawn-sound  of  feet  running  slip- 
slod  to  factory,  dock,  and  yard  was  heard  anew. 

Loo  woke  to  another  day  and  the  memory  of  the  misery 
of  what  had  been  the  previous  evening. 

She  turned  to  her  husband. 

In  the  dusk  she  could  see  nothing  but  Teddy's  eyes 
open  and  glimmering. 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his  body.  He  was  lying 
naked  beneath  the  old  soldier-cloak,  borrowed  by  her 
last  night,  that  covered  them  both. 

The  bitterness  passed.  A  wave  of  mother-tenderness 
stole  over  her  as  she  felt  his  thinness,  and  recalled  him  as 
he  stood  yesterday  evening  a  naked,  shivering  ghost  be- 
side the  refuse-heap  in  the  kitchen,  his  clothes  making  a 
sopping  pile  at  his  feet. 

"Well,  old  man,"  she  said. 


336  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  did  not  answer,  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  his 
fingers  sought  hers. 

"  How  cold  you  are ! "  she  cried.     "  Like  death ! " 

Something  dripped,  dripped  on  her  hand.  Her  elbow 
seemed  set  in  a  puddle.    Everything  was  wet  and  sloppy. 

She  gasped  and  sat  bolt  upright. 

Then  she  sprang  to  the  window  and  looked  at  her  hand. 
In  that  faint  light  she  saw  that  it  was  dark. 

"Ted!"  she  screamed.  "What  'ave  you  done?"  and 
rushing  back  to  the  bedside  snatched  the  cloak  back  from 
his  bare  body. 

She  could  not  see  much,  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well;  but 
she  could  see  enough  in  that  dim  light.  He  lay  beneath 
her,  his  eyes  open  and  staring,  his  throat  and  chest 
splotched  with  shining  darkness. 

She  tumbled  up  against  the  wall,  and  rocked  there. 

"My  Jesus!"  she  screamed,  her  hands  pressed  against 
her  eyes  to  shut  out  that  deadful  vision.  "Where  did  you 
get  it?" 

Small  hands  fumbled  at  the  door.  It  opened.  Meg 
stood  in  the  door,  a  little  figure  in  a  cloud  of  white,  whim- 
pering in  the  darkness. 

"Mum!"  she  cried. 

Loo  rushed  at  her  and  drove  her  out. 

"  Go  back ! "  she  cried.     "  Go  back !    Daddy's  done  it." 

Then  her  love  for  him  overcame  all  else. 

She  fell  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 


THE  RESURRECTION  MORNING  337 

"  Ted ! "  she  cried.     "  My  Ted !  come  back." 

His  eyes  blinked,  and  she  knew  he  was  not  dead. 

"I'll  forgive  you  if  you'll  only  come  round,"  she  gasped. 
"I  will!    I  swear  I  will." 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  she  almost  laughed. 

"Half  a  mo!"  she  cried,  ran  downstairs  into  the  kitchen, 
where  the  refuse-heap  of  yesterday  still  cumbered  the 
floor  and  stank,  and  swept  cupboard  and  chimney-piece 
for  a  match. 

There  was  none. 

She  rushed  upstairs  again,  and  flinging  up  the  window 
looked  out. 

It  was  still  dusk  and  she  could  not  see  a  soul. 

"Ted!"  she  gasped.  "I  must  go  for  Doctor  English. 
It's  too  dark  to  send  Meg." 

She  had  gone  to  sleep  in  her  clothes  —  partly  for 
warmth,  and  partly  because  she  had  nothing  else  to  sleep 
in. 

He  nodded  at  her,  clutched  her  fingers  feebly  in  his 
clay-cold  grasp  and  let  them  go. 

She  bent  over  him  desperately. 

"Can't  you  speak,  Ted?"  she  besought  him  in  breaking 
voice.     "Owe  word." 

He  gurgled, 

"Loo,"  from  very  far  away. 

She  kissed  him  passionately. 

A  little  whimpering  voice  came  from  Meg's  room. 


338  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  mother  steadied  herself  and  went  to  the  child. 

"Daddy's  not  well,  Meg,"  she  called,  soft  and  sooth- 
ing. "I  must  fetch  the  doctor.  It's  all  right.  Be  a 
good  girl,  now,  lovey,  and  go  to  sleep." 

Gently  she  closed  the  door  and  locked  it. 

The  child  should  not  see  thatl 

Then  she  called  valiantly, 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  Ted,"  and  rushed  downstairs 
and  out  into  the  dreary  street,  running  along  with  panting 
heart;  and  as  she  ran  she  gasped  and  whimpered. 

A  woman  in  the  dusk  of  a  door  shaking  a  mat  heard  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  hoarsely,  as  the  other  hunted 
sobbing  by. 

"Ted's  cut  his  throat!"  she  panted  and  was  gone. 

The  woman  routed  her  neighbour  out  to  tell  her  the 
news,  banging  at  her  window  with  a  broom  to  that  end. 

Soon  the  news  was  all  down  the  street.  Women  called 
it  to  one  another  from  upper  windows.  Men  whispered 
it  as  they  went  to  work.  There  was  quite  a  commotion 
among  the  starlings  of  the  street.  People  clustered  to- 
gether and  shook  wise  and  foolish  heads  over  it.  The 
wise  had  always  known;  the  foolish  wouldn't  have  be- 
lieved. 

The  lank  and  somewhat  morose  youth  in  a  waistcoat 
cleaning  the  steps  of  the  Brighton  Arms  at  the  end  of 
the  street  gladly  ceased  his  work  to  watch,  and  wondered. 


THE  RESURRECTION  MORNING  339 

A  sagacious  young  man  in  the  blue  of  an  engineer  pass- 
ing on  his  way  to  work,  a  carpet-bag  on  his  back,  whistled 
and  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction 
of  Archery  Row. 

"  Another  on  'em,"  he  said  with  the  mysterious  ellipsis 
loved  by  the  lower  class. 

"What?" 

"Done  it." 

He  drew  a  forefinger  across  his  throat. 

"Who?" 

"'Ankey.  Twenty-three.  Gingery  nut.  You  know. 
Cocky  chap,  used  to  be." 

The  morose  youth  woke  up. 

"What!  him  that  got  into  trouble  through  plugging  the 
copper  outside  our  shop?" 

"That's  him." 

"What's  come  to  him  then  now?"  asked  the  morose 
youth.  "Plugged  'isself  instead  of  the  copper  this  time, 
has  he?" 

"Cut  his  throat,  my  boy,"  answered  the  other  with  the 
flippancy  of  the  young  man  of  blood  who  assumes  cal- 
lousness to  show  that  he  is  brave.  "And  his  child's! 
—  and  his  wife's !  Only  she  got  away  before  he'd  quite 
finished  'er,  and  scoffed  down  the  street,  streaming  blood, 
and  yelling  murder." 

"And  a  good  job  too,  I  should  siy  —  if  I'd  been  'er," 
said  the  morose  youth.     "  What's  the  trouble  then?  " 


340  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Out  o'  work,  my  boy.  Sold  up  everything.  Couldn't 
stick  it  no  more." 

The  youth  in  the  waistcoat  spat  contemptuously.  He 
had  never  been  out  of  work  himself. 

"What!"  he  scoffed.  "Cut  your  throat  for  a  little 
thing  like  that!    I'd  be  ashamed." 

The  sagacious  young  man  wagged  a  superior  head.  He 
was  a  year  older  than  the  other,  and  liked  to  show  it. 

"Ah,  I  dunno,"  he  said  shrewdly.  "You  wait,"  and 
passed  on,  whistling  with  his  news. 


XXXVII 
THE  PRIEST  OF  TO-DAY 

Doctor  English  had  been  up  all  night. 

On  the  previous  evening  his  sister  had  come  home,  and 
the  pair  had  sat  up  late  talking. 

Just  as  he  was  going  to  bed  a  policeman  had  called 
him  up  to  attend  a  case  in  a  common  lodging-house 
hard  by. 

When  he  returned  home  it  was  too  late  to  bother  about 
bed,  aod  he  betook  himself  to  a  favourite  occupation  of 
his. 

Doffing  his  coat,  he  sat  at  the  open  window,  the  wind 
on  his  forehead,  looking  over  dark  roofs  to  await  and 
watch  the  dawn. 

As  the  light  brought  with  it  a  little  wind  that  crept  up 
the  river,  across  the  roofs,  and  caressed  his  brow,  he 
heard  a  voice  at  the  speaking-tube  beside  him. 

"Well?"  he  called. 

"Doctor  English,"  gasped  a  voice. 

"Yes.    Who  is  it?" 

"Mrs.  Hankey,  sir.     Quick!" 

He  flung  on  his  coat  and  ran  downstairs. 

341 


342  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

A  woman  fluttered  in  the  door;  a  wan  face  peered  at 
him  out  of  the  dusk;  somebody  was  panting. 

"Ah!  is  that  you,  Mrs.  Hankey?"  he  said.  "What  is 
it?" 

"Ted's  cut  his  throat,  sir,"  the  woman  gasped. 

"One  minute,"  he  said  quietly,  ran  into  his  surgery,  and 
stuffed  bandages,  cotton-wool,  a  needle  and  other  things 
into  his  bag. 

He  was  at  her  side  again  in  a  minute. 

"Ill  go  on,"  he  said.  "You  take  your  time,  or  you'll 
strain  your  heart.     No.  23,  aren't  you?" 

The  dawn  stole  gray  about  his  head,  bald  at  the  crown 
as  though  tonsured,  as  he  sped. 

A  thousand  years  ago  on  that  same  road,  then  but  a 
marshy  track,  a  priest,  tonsured  he  too,  had  run  on 
such  another  dawn  on  such  another  errand  of  mercy 
to  a  swineherd  dying  of  much  the  same  disease  in  a 
hovel  on  much  the  same  spot.  The  one  man  carried 
an  injection  squirt,  a  phial  of  strychnine,  and  medic- 
aments; the  other  the  mass.  Where  Love  unarmed 
with  anything  but  a  belief  in  its  being  had  once  sped  to 
soothe  a  passing  soul  it  could  not  assist,  Love  now  armed 
with  knowledge  rushed  to  the  rescue,  anxious  and  resolute 
to  save. 

Fast  as  the  doctor  ran,  Loo  was  at  the  house  almost  as 
soon  as  he. 

The  room  was  still  very  dim,  Teddy's  eyes  the  only 


THE  PRIEST  OF  TO-DAY  343 

light  in  it.  And  whether  his  eyelids  moved  or  not  the 
doctor  was  not  sure. 

He  grasped  the  dying  man's  thin  wrist  and  felt  his  pulse, 
faint  and  far  away. 

"He  ain't  gone,  sir?"  gasped  Loo  at  his  side. 

"No.  He's  not  gone,"  panted  the  doctor.  "Light 
the  gas." 

"I  got  no  match." 

"Here  you  are." 

A  pale  broad  blade  of  flame  sprang  out  in  the  dusk. 

Teddy  lay  with  bare  breast-bone  underneath  the  old 
military  cloak  —  a  haggard  ghost,  red  of  hair,  and  blue  of 
eye,  faintly  smiling. 

Quietly  the  doctor  pulled  the  cloak  aside. 

The  little  cockney  seemed  to  shine  beneath  it.  He  was 
quite  naked,  thin  as  a  spectre,  slight  as  a  boy,  and  some- 
how luminous.  On  the  white  of  his  body  the  best  of  him 
lay  squandered  in  dark  flood  that  dripped  on  to  the  sack- 
cloth palliasse  and  thence  on  to  the  floor.  Beneath  the 
cloak  that  was  his  only  covering  his  bare  feet  with  their 
pathetic  big  toes  projected  forlornly  into  the  air. 

The  doctor  bent. 

"Ted,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "  d'you  know  me?" 

The  sick  man  nodded;  the  blue  eyes  smiled. 

A  clammy  hand  closed  round  the  doctor's  big  finger  and 
clung  to  it. 

Loo  bent  over  the  dying  man. 


344  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Ted!"  she  sobbed.  "You  shouldn't  ought  to  have 
done  it.     It  is  naughty  of  you." 

The  doctor  moved  her  aside  with  tender  firmness. 

"Cut  his  throat!"  he  said  quietly.  "What  a  character 
you  give  him,  mother!  It's  a  plain  case  of  hemorrhage. 
Think  he  was  going  to  leave  you  in  the  lurch?     Not  he." 

Loo's  tears  fell  on  her  husband's  face. 

"Oh,  Ted! "  she  cried.     "And  I  thought  you'd  done  it." 

The  big  doctor  bent  over  the  white  wisp  of  a  man  be- 
neath him. 

"Now  I'm  going  to  prick  you,  old  boy,"  he  said. 
"This  is  only  a  little  salt  and  water.  Hold  tight."  He 
used  his  injection  syringe. 

"Can  you  speak,  Ted?"  gasped  Loo. 

The  other's  lips  seemed  glued  together.  Slowly  they 
opened,  and  his  voice  came  faintly: 

"Love  me,  Loo." 

She  kissed  his  forehead. 

Doctor  English  nodded. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "Richard's  himself  again. 
Don't  talk,  though." 

Little  hands  fumbled  at  the  door. 

"Don't  let  the  child  in,  mother,"  said  the  doctor. 
"We  don't  want  her  to  see  daddy  like  this.  We  must 
swab  him  up  a  bit  first.     Has  he  got  a  clean  shirt?" 

"No,  sir,"  sobbed  Loo.  "That  he  hasn't.  Took  all 
his  wet  things  off  last  night  when  he  come  in.     I'd  noth- 


THE  PRIEST  OF  TO-DAY  345 

ing  to  give  him.  So  I  borrowed  this  old  cloak  to  lay 
over  him." 

"No  towels?" 

"No,  sir.    Not  a  thing." 

The  doctor  walked  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 
Dimly  he  was  aware  of  a  group  of  women  gathered  in  the 
street  outside. 

"Bring  me  some  towels  and  a  sponge,  will  you?"  he 
said  very  quietly.  "And  if  you  can  spare  a  blanket  or  so, 
any  of  you!" 

The  crowd  scattered,  and  the  doctor  returned  to  the 
bedside. 

Taking  off  his  own  warm  waistcoat  he  wrapped  the 
sick  man's  feet  in  it  and  spread  his  overcoat  over  the  still 
figure  beneath  the  cloak. 

"Cheer,  old  boy,"  he  said  in  his  strangely  quiet  voice. 
"Never  say  die." 

Teddy  smiled  at  him  with  pale  blue  eyes. 

"There!"  said  Loo,  bending  over  him  like  a  mother 
over  her  first  born.  "He's  smiling.  How  are  you,  old 
man?" 

"'Appy,"  whispered  the  dying  cockney,  and  curled  a 
cold  finger  about  hers. 

The  doctor  turned  away. 

"The  bleeding's  stopped,"  he  said  in  a  sighing  voice. 
"There's  nothing  like  a  doctor  to  frighten  it  away.  It'll 
not  come  again.    You've  bled   yourself  dry,  old  boy." 


346  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  put  on  his  coat.  "I'll  run  round  to  the  chemist's, 
and  then  send  blankets  and  hot-water  bottles  and  things. 
Don't  let  him  stir  or  talk." 

He  went  out  breathing  heavily. 

On  the  landing  was  little  Meg,  half -dressed  and  whim- 
pering.    He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  tramped  downstairs. 

In  the  kitchen  women  moved  with  difficulty  amidst  the 
litter  and  smell  of  smoke,  and  lifted  white  faces. 

He  gave  the  child  to  one,  and  asked  another  to  put  hot 
water  on  to  boil. 

"There's  no  coal,  sir,"  said  the  woman.     "I  looked." 

"There's  no  nothing,"  said  a  second,  throwing  back  a 
cupboard  door. 

"Only  this,"  remarked  a  third,  and  pointed  to  the  floor. 

There  before  the  fire  was  the  refuse-heap  still  smelling 
of  stale  smoke  —  ashes,  tea-leaves,  broken  jam-pots,  and 
crockery,  scorched  curtains,  coverlets,  and  bolsters  piled 
up  in  littered  desolation,  and  on  top  of  them,  a  fitting 
crown  to  the  edifice,  a  heap  of  sodden  clothes,  strangely 
pathetic. 

On  the  table  was  a  broken-spouted  teapot  a-brim  with 
pawn-tickets  resting  on  a  blue  notice  to  quit. 

Doctor  English  coughed.  It  may  have  been  the  stale 
smoke  still  hanging  about  the  room  that  touched  up  his 
throat,  or  it  may  have  been  something  else. 

Then  he  passed  on  to  the  parlour. 

And  if  the  kitchen  was  a  refuse-heap,  the  parlour  was 


THE  PRIEST  OF  TO-DAY  347 

a  desert.  Walls  and  floor  and  window  alike  were  bare  of 
everything  save  accumulated  dust,  damp-spots  upon  the 
wall,  and  a  cheap  print  of  the  Good  Shepherd. 

Hard  by  it,  scrawled  in  charcoal,  was  Teddy's  farewell 
message  to  his  wife. 

The  big  man  stood  before  the  writing  on  the  wall  and 
read: 

Dear  Loo: 
This  way  when  you've  had  enough.     Meg  and  me  are  going  on. 

Your  loving  husband, 

Ted. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

Mrs.  Baxter  came  running  in  with  towels  and  a  sponge. 

"Here  you  are,  sir!"  she  cried. 

He  paid  no  .heed. 

Doctor  English  wept. 


XXXVIII 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER 

The  chemist's  shop  was  not  open,  and  Doctor  English 
trotted  on  home. 

On  the  stairs  he  met  his  sister,  thinner  than  of  old. 

"How  tired  you  look,  Edmund,"  she  said.  "Been  at 
it  all  night?" 

"Can  you  let  me  have  a  couple  of  hot-water  bottles, 
and  a  pair  of  sheets,  and  a  blanket  or  two,  and  some 
tinned  soup,  and  anything  in  the  way  of  petticoats  and 
that  sort  of  thing  you  can  spare?"  he  asked,  striding  up 
the  stairs. 

"Anything  else?"  asked  the  lady  ironically.  "Mary, 
the  doctor  wants  all  our  house-linen,  and  the  cook's 
stores,  and  my  under-clothes.  I  suppose  he  must  have 
them." 

"It's  not  the  first  time,  'm,"  smiled  Mary. 

"  Lucky  I  had  you  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  store-cupboard 
when  I  was  away,"  said  Miss  English  grimly. 

"They're  destitute,"  came  the  doctor's  voice  from  his 
room. 

"We  soon  shall  be,"  said  Miss  English,  busy  at  a  cup- 

348 


LAST  OF  THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER      349 

board  in  the  landing.  "Edmund!  shall  we  fill  the  hot- 
water  bottles?" 

"Good  idea!"  came  the  doctor's  voice.  "Mary,  run 
and  whistle  a  taxi  for  me,  will  you?" 

He  emerged  from  his  room,  a  suit  of  pajamas  over  his 
arm,  and  a  pair  of  night-socks  in  his  hand. 

"Do  have  some  breakfast  first,  Eddy,"  urged  his  sister 
shrilly  from  the  dining-room.     "Ham  toast." 

"  I'll  be  back  at  once,"  he  answered.  "  I  must  just  take 
these  round." 

The  taxi  was  at  the  door  and  Mary  was  loading  it  with 
best  Witney  blankets,  linen  sheets,  hot-water  bottles, 
comforts  and  medicaments. 

Then  Doctor  English  came  down  the  steps. 

As  he  did  so  the  Relieving  Officer  hurried  by. 

Mr.  Starkie  looked  less  martial  than  usual.  He  did  not 
march;  he  trotted  swiftly,  like  a  dog  who  is  afraid. 

As  he  saw  the  other  he  made  a  sudden  half-halt. 

"Heard  this,  sir?"  he  panted. 

"What?" 

"Hankey's  cut  his  throat  and  all." 

Doctor  English  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"Ah,"  he  said  quietly.  "Bad  job  for  you,  Mr.  Star- 
kie." 

The  other's  eyes  started  in  his  gray  face. 

"For  God's  sake,  Doctor  English!"  he  cried.  "You 
don't  blame  me." 


350  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Doctor  English  looked  mild  and  stepped  delicately  into 
his  cab. 

He  was  smiling  still  as  it  drew  up  at  No.  23. 

The  woman  scrubbing  on  her  knees  in  the  parlour  looked 
up,  and  her  eyes  were  streaming. 

It  was  Mrs.  Baxter. 

"  'Tis  a  shame,  sir,"  she  said.  "A  good  woman  like  that." 

Doctor  English  walked  on. 

In  the  kitchen,  too,  kind  hands  had  been  at  work. 

The  refuse-heap  had  been  cleared  away;  the  cupboard 
was  no  longer  bare;  a  fire  was  chattering  merrily  in  the 
range;  a  neighbour  was  busy  with  brushes,  pans,  and 
cloths. 

The  doctor  went  upstairs  to  the  sick  man's  room,  the 
blankets  in  his  arms. 

There  too  was  a  change.  The  window  was  open;  a 
fire  burned  in  the  grate.  On  the  floor  was  a  mattress 
and  a  heap  of  bedding. 

Loo  was  leaning  over  her  invalid,  feeding  him  out  of  a 
spoon  like  a  little  child. 

The  faces  of  the  two  were  very  close,  and  Teddy's  bare 
arm  was  wound  about  his  wife's  waist. 

The  pair  were  murmuring  to  each  other. 

Then  they  both  chuckled,  children  and  lovers  that  they 
were. 

The  doctor  dropped  his  burden  of  blankets  and  stood  in 
the  door. 


LAST  OF  THE  RELIEVING  OFFICER      351 

A  sudden  shyness  possessed  him.  He  lowered  his  eyes. 
He  felt  he  had  no  business  there. 

Then  he  coughed. 

Loo  heard  and  turned. 

"Is  that  you,  sir?" 

He  crossed  to  the  bed  quietly. 

"Well,  how  is  he?" 

"Why,  sir,  good  as  gold."  She  pointed  to  the  heap  of 
bedclothes  on  the  floor,  the  gift  of  some  neighbour.  "  They 
brought  me  this.  Only  I  didn't  dare  to  shift  him  till  you 
come,  sir." 

Together  they  washed  their  invalid  and  warmed  him. 

They  put  a  mattress  on  the  bed,  sheets  on  the  mattress, 
and  Teddy,  lost  in  the  doctor's  pajamas,  on  the  sheets. 

He  lay  with  his  red  head  resting  on  pillows  and  bol- 
sters, his  feet  propped  against  hot-water  bottles. 

The  colour  flowed  back  to  his  cheeks;  the  light  returned 
to  his  eyes;  in  his  drained  body  the  slow,  thin  blood  began 
to  circulate  again.  His  feet  and  hands  glowed.  His  cock- 
ney soul  came  back  to  him,  cheeky  and  chirping.  He 
winked  a  wan  blue  eye  and  cracked  old  jokes  to  please  him- 
self and  tease  the  doctor,  who  had  forbidden  him  to  talk. 

"The  sooner  I  get  out  of  this,  the  better,  I  see,"  said 
the  doctor,  feigning  grim  displeasure.  "There's  no  hold- 
ing the  chap." 

Loo  followed  him  out. 

"They  talk  about  the  infirmary,  sir,"  she  stammered. 


352  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

" Never !"  he  said.     "He  mustn't  be  moved." 

She  thanked  him  mutely. 

Then  he  turned  quietly  away. 

At  the  door  he  met  Mr.  Starkie.  The  Relieving  Officer 
was  carrying  a  packet  of  groceries  and  medical  comforts; 
and  a  coal  cart  was  at  the  door. 

The  man's  face  was  anxious  and  sullen  behind  his  mili- 
tary moustache. 

"Any  hope  for  him?"  he  asked. 

"None  whatever,"  said  the  doctor  briefly,  and  passed 
on. 


XXXIX 

THE  POLICEMAN 

Doctor  English  returned  at  midday. 

Quietly  he  climbed  the  stairs. 

Loo  was  standing  in  the  dusk  at  the  top,  her  eyes  swim- 
ming in  her  pale  face. 

"I  got  nothing  for  you,  sir,"  she  said  shyly. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  gave  her  his  hand. 

"One  thing,"  she  continued.     "It  won't  be  for  long." 

He  was  silent,  and  would  not  meet  her  seeking  eyes. 

"I  know,"  she  went  on.  "You  needn't  tell  me.  I 
know." 

They  turned  into  the  sick  man's  room. 

A  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate.  The  window  was  open, 
and  through  it  the  sun  shone,  and  a  warm  air  entered. 

Teddy  lay  flat  upon  the  pillowless  bed,  Meg  sitting 
beside  him,  playing  with  her  daddy's  fingers.  He  seemed 
transparent  as  an  anemone,  faintly  flushed,  and  radiant, 
and  his  pale  blue  eyes  that  sought  the  doctor's  were  full 
of  Hght  and  love. 

"How  are  you  now,  old  boy?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Just  'appy,  sir,"  said  the  little  cockney. 

853 


354  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

The  doctor  lifted  Meg  from  the  bed,  and  took  his 
patient's  thin  wrist  in  his  hand.  Then  he  opened  the 
other's  pa  jama  jacket,  and  watched  his  bare  and  faintly 
heaving  chest.     He  tapped  here,  and  listened  there. 

"That's  all,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  going  to  disturb  you 
any  more,  old  boy."  And  he  buttoned  the  other  up  in 
the  pajama  jacket  that  enfolded  him  like  a  cloud. 

Then  he  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  as  he  dried 
his  hands.  There  was  little  to  see  or  hear:  a  long  brown 
street,  a  row  of  dingy  gray  houses,  a  canopy  of  mottled 
sky,  and  the  movement  and  mutter  of  seven  millions  of 
men  encamped  for  leagues  about  their  dying  comrade. 

He  turned  away. 

"Go  on  as  you're  doing,  Mrs.  Hankey,"  he  said.  "I'll 
look  in  again  this  evening,"  and  he  went  out. 

A  huge  black  form,  helmeted,  darkened  the  street-door. 

It  was  Fat  Chops,  the  policeman. 

The  man  touched  his  helmet. 

"We  heard  at  the  station  there's  a  case  of  suicide  here, 
sir,"  he  began  awkwardly. 

"Suicide?"  said  Doctor  English  quietly.  "Murder, 
you  mean." 

"Murder?"  replied  the  policeman.     "Who  by?" 

"Why,  you  and  me,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"Eh?"  said  the  policeman,  stupid  and  stolid. 

"Well,  go  and  see  for  yourself  if  you  don't  believe  me. 
He's  lying  up  there."    He  threw  his  face  up  to  the  open 


THE  POLICEMAN  355 

window.  "Mrs.  Hankey,  may  this  man  come  up  and 
see  your  husband?  " 

Loo  smiled  down  at  him  that  wan  spiritual  smile  of  hers. 

"Yes,  sir.     He  may  come." 

The  policeman  entered  awkwardly. 

He  didn't  understand,  but  he  had  his  duty  to  perform. 

Heavily  he  climbed  the  stairs. 

She  waited  him  at  the  top. 

She  did  not  know  him,  did  not  reason  about  his  office, 
but  in  a  vague  way  she  felt  he  represented  the  thing  that 
had  slain  her  man. 

"You  can't  hurt  him  now,"  she  said  with  the  gentle 
cruelty  of  a  woman. 

"I  never  want  to  'urt  nobody  —  only  if  they've  done 
wrong,"  the  other  answered  surlily,  and  entered. 

The  dying  cockney  lay  prone  on  the  bed,  his  eyes  seek- 
ing the  policeman's. 

His  ginger  hair,  dark  about  the  brow,  made  a  halo  of 
flame  about  his  head.  The  sun  slanted  in  and  lit  the 
transparent  hands  with  their  thin  down-turned  nails  that 
lay  upon  the  bed.  Streams  of  love  poured  from  his  pale 
blue  eyes  and  seemed  to  flood  the  dark  figure  in  the  door. 

"  'Ellow,  oP  pal,"  he  said  in  his  faint,  faraway  voice. 

The  big  pink  policeman,  a  mass  of  meat  and  beer  and 
honest  English  manhood,  began  to  tremble.  He  was  in 
the  presence  of  Death  —  he  saw  it  at  a  glance.  Single- 
handed,  before  now  he  had  tackled  a  gang  of  armed  anar- 


356  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

chists.  In  the  presence  of  this  dying  man,  ghostly  lit  by 
some  inward  radiance,  he  felt  afraid. 

Removing  his  helmet,  he  stood  in  the  door  red-jowled 
and  with  short  harsh  hair. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  see  this,  'Ankey,"  he  muttered. 

"I  ain't,  old  mate,"  said  the  cockney,  with  a  ghost  of 
his  old  chirpiness.     "I'm  just  all  right." 

The  other's  big  fingers  played  with  the  strap  of  his  hel- 
met. His  huge  bulk  seemed  to  fill  the  room  and  make  him 
awkward  and  ashamed  before  the  radiant  skeleton  on  the 
bed. 

He  lumbered  a  step  closer  and  bent,  with  his  hands  on 
his  knees,  his  great  red  face  close  to  the  other's  ghostly 
one. 

"I  'ope  you  got  nothing  against  me,  'Ankey,"  he  said  in 
low  voice.     "I  only  done  my  duty." 

Teddy  turned  his  head  on  the  mattress,  and  his  eyes 
were  close  to  the  other's. 

"No,  I  got  nothing  against  you,  ol'  man,"  he  said.  "I 
got  nothing  against  nobody.  They  never  meant  no 
'arm." 

He  sought  the  other's  hand. 

The  great  fellow  took  the  thin  claw  in  his  meaty  and 
massive  fist. 

"01'  man,"  said  Teddy.     "01'  man." 

Suddenly  the  big  policeman  coughed  and  began  to  cry. 

He  stood  up  straight,  the  tears  pouring  down  his  face. 


THE  POLICEMAN  357 

Then  he  turned  his  broad  blue  back  that  seemed  to  fill 
the  room  like  a  cloud  and  tramped  away. 

"Cheer,  or  mate!"  came  the  thin  voice  behind  him. 

"  Good-bye,"  croaked  the  policeman,  never  turning,  and 
went  out. 

He  tramped  down  the  stairs. 

Loo  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"It's  not  your  fault,  Mister,"  she  said  gently. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  paused. 

"He's  got  nothing  against  me,  Mrs  'Ankey,  'as  he?"  he 
gulped. 

"No.  That  I'm  sure  he's  not,"  she  cried  with  swift 
sympathy.  "He  got  nothing  against  nobody.  He  loves 
'em  all." 

The  policeman  swallowed. 

"Good-day,"  he  said,  and  swaggered  blindly  down  the 
street,  his  helmet  cocked  over  his  eyes. 


XL 
FALLING  DUSK 

The  dying  of  Teddy  Hankey  was  no  great  affair. 
There  was  no  calling  of  priests  to  ease  his  soul  to  rest; 
no  summoning  of  solicitors  to  dispose  of  the  accumula- 
tions of  a  lifetime. 

Like  the  bulk  of  his  fellow  countrymen  in  the  richest 
country  beneath  the  sun  he  had  nothing  to  leave  but  the 
memory  of  a  man  who  had  laboured,  loved,  and  made  mis- 
takes, and  who  on  the  whole  had  kept  his  end  up  fairly 
well  considering. 

It  was  given  to  him  to  die  in  his  own  home. 

And  he  had  asked  no  more  than  that,  which  is  the  goal 
and  life  ambition  of  millions  of  his  fellow  workingmen. 
During  these  last  few  lingering  days  of  life,  when  most  he 
needed  them,  he  had  about  his  bed  those  he  loved  best 
and  not  the  well-meant  mechanical  service  of  hireling 
hands. 

The  future  of  Meg  and  Loo  did  not  disturb  him. 
He  did  not  say  that  God  would  see  to  them;  he  did 
not  even  think  it.  He  was  too  near  the  Heart  of 
Truth  to  doubt. 

858 


FALLING  DUSK  359 

And  so  one  evening  when  Loo  was  out  of  the  room  and 
Doctor  English,  leaning  over  the  bed,  said  quietly, 

"  Meg  and  the  missus  '11  be  all  right,  Ted." 

The  dying  man  answered  in  that  faraway  voice  of  his, 

"  Yes,  sir.    They'll  be  all  right," 

He  did  not  even  say  thank  you;  he  had  faith,  which  is 
beyond  words. 

Moreover,  he  was  not  going  to  die. 

He  told  the  doctor  so,  and  Loo. 

"I  ain't  a-goin  out,"  he  said  in  his  weak  chirp.  "Now, 
I  ain't.     I  feel  as  if  I  should  live  for  ever." 

"So  you  will,"  said  the  doctor. 

Loo  bent  over  her  invalid,  smiling. 

"You're  an  old  fraud,  ain't  you,  Ted?"  she  chaffed. 

"I  am  that,"  he  answered. 

Teddy  lay  thus  all  day,  the  love  streaming  from  those 
sky-blue  eyes  of  his  on  Loo,  on  little  Meg,  on  Doctor  Eng- 
lish, on  the  blank  walls,  and  the  cheap  print  of  the  Saviour, 
on  the  dingy  windows,  and  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
opposite. 

He  was  so  happy,  so  good,  so  like  a  little  child. 

Those  last  days  were  the  best  of  his  life,  and  of  Loo's 
too. 

"I  wish  it  could  last  for  ever,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  it  does,"  replied  the  doctor. 

A  hush  fell  on  him  each  time  he  entered  the  sick  room : 


360  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

for  he  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  greater  than  the 
little  man  dying  in  the  bed  —  something  of  which  that 
shred  of  suffering  humanity  was  the  symbol;  something  of 
eternal  import,  of  darkling  beauty,  sad,  sweet,  and  strong. 

He  came  very  often. 

Loo  noticed  it. 

"  I  got  nothing  for  you,  sir,"  she  reminded  him  with  her 
wan  smile. 

He  lifted  a  protesting  hand. 

"I  can't  keep  away,"  he  said.     "It's  just  that." 

Indeed  that  little  room  drew  him  as  the  altar  draws  the 
priest. 

Set  amid  those  murky  millions,  seething  all  about  it, 
it  shone  like  a  star  in  the  wastes  of  night. 

Here  was  Peace;  here  was  Joy. 

The  Lord  had  manifested  himself  at  last  in  the  heart  of 
a  tuberculous  cockney,  dying  in  a  mean  street  south  of  the 
river,  unknown  of  any,  and  honoured  only  of  the  God 
who  made  him. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  town  there  was  about  to  take 
place  the  coronation  of  a  King  and  Queen. 

Men  and  women  were  rushing  across  oceans  and  con- 
tinents to  see  the  show.  The  old  gray  Abbey,  beautiful 
beside  the  river,  was  hedged  with  bulwarks  of  yellow  seats. 
And  within  it  an  inconspicuous  little  man  with  a  beard, 
good  and  very  tidy,  was  to  go  through  a  wearisome  cere- 


FALLING  DUSK  361 

monial  with  all  the  princes  of  this  world  and  their  prin- 
cesses, gorgeous  in  panoply  of  state,  congregated  about 
him  under  the  shadow  of  the  Cross. 

Doctor  English  would  not  attend  that  ceremony;  he 
would  not  see  that  spectacle.  He  preferred  to  sit  in  this 
quiet  room  in  this  dull  street  amid  low  houses  and  hear  the 
startling  chatter  and  watch  a  son  of  man  fade  away  into 
the  silence. 

There  were  never  two  souls  nearer  to  each  other  and  the 
Great  One  than  the  little  leather-worker  and  his  wife  dur- 
ing those  last  days. 

"He's  like  a  little  child,"  said  Loo,  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"that  good  and  grateful." 

By  day  she  nursed  him;  at  night  she  slept  at  his  side. 

When  she  left  the  room,  the  light  left  his  face  too;  and 
his  eyes  were  on  the  door  till  she  returned. 

She  told  Doctor  English  of  it. 

"There  he  is  prying  for  me  like  a  child,"  she  gulped. 
"It's  lovely." 

Teddy  loved  best  to  lie  with  his  red  head  on  the  bend  of 
Loo's  arm,  while  she  fed  him  with  grapes,  placing  them  in 
his  mouth,  and  removing  the  skin  as  for  a  child. 

More  than  once  Doctor  English,  finding  them  thus 
loverlike,  went  out  softly  as  he  had  entered. 

Now  and  then  the  sick  man  wandered  a  little. 

Sometimes  he  called  Loo  Mum,  and  sometimes  Meg. 


362  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Once  as  the  night  was  coming  down  and  they  lay  to- 
gether thus,  he  said  in  his  dreamy  way : 

"Loo,  where  d'you  think  Paradise  is?" 

She  bent  over  him. 

"I  don't  know,  old  man.  Is  it  one  of  the  great 
stars?" 

The  little  cockney  shook  his  head. 

"Where  then?" 

"  Here ! "  He  waved  his  spectral  hand  to  and  fro  in  the 
air  before  his  face,  as  one  dispersing  a  mist  that  he  might 
see  through  it. 

"Can  you  see  it?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer  directly. 

"It's  all  in  wyves,"  he  said  dreamily,  and  he  made  an 
undulatory  motion  with  his  hand. 

Loo  was  stirred. 

"Can  I  see  it?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  can't.  Your  body's  too  thick  like,  Loo,"  he  said 
gently.  "Mine's  a  bit  thinner  now;  and  I  can't  see 
much." 

"Is  there  aingels  and  that  —  wings?"  asked  the  pro- 
saic Loo. 

"I  don't  know  nothing  about  no  aingels,"  the  other 
answered.  "  It  just  keeps  on  a-comin'  —  rainbow  wyves 
—  beautiful,  beautiful."  His  hand  rose  and  fell  as 
though  floating  on  a  billowy  sea. 


FALLING  DUSK  363 

She  told  Doctor  English  when  he  came  later.  He 
examined  his  patient  minutely. 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  inflammation  about  that 
lung/'  he  told  Loo  outside.  "He's  going  through  a  crisis. 
If  he  pulls  through  he  may  make  a  rapid  recovery  —  for 
the  time." 

She  answered  him  with  the  decision  of  the  woman  who 
has  faced  the  worse. 

"No,  sir,  never.  I  know.  From  the  way  he  talks. 
They'd  never  let  him  back  now.     He  knows  too  much." 

"Lazarus  came  back,"  said  the  great  doctor  quietly, 
drying  his  hands. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  swiftly;  "but  he  never  told. 
Ted's  told." 

He  went  back  into  the  sick  room. 

"Keep  your  heart  up,  Ted,"  he  said.  "You're  doing 
well." 

"  I  am,  sir,"  answered  the  other,  far  away.  "  I'm  doing 
better  nor  what  you  think  for." 

"Good-night,  old' boy." 

"Good-bye,  sir." 


XLI 
TEDDY  TRIUMPHANT 

A  little  later  the  mother  brought  in  Meg  to  say  good- 
night. 

The  child  sat  on  her  daddy's  bed  as  of  old.  He  looked 
at  her  and  through  her,  held  her  plump  hand  in  his  thin 
one,  lifted  her  hair  and  passed  it  through  his  fingers, 
and  tickled  her  chubby  neck. 

She  chuckled  at  him,  bowing  her  head  upon  her  shoul- 
der, to  prevent  his  assault,  and  cried, 

"Don't,  daddy!" 

Then  his  interest  in  the  child  seemed  to  fade. 

He  ceased  to  play  with  her,  and  his  eyes  were  far  away. 
The  mother  saw  it. 

"Give  daddy  a  kiss,"  she  said. 

The  child  touched  her  father's  forehead  with  her 
lips. 

She  might  not  kiss  his  lips. 

"Good-night,  lovey,"  he  said.  "Be  a  good  gal,  and  do 
what  mother  tells  you." 

The  mother  bore  her  out. 

She  went,  silent  and  staring  curiously. 

364 


TEDDY  TRIUMPHANT  365 

When  Loo  returned  she  noticed  a  pucker  on  the  fore- 
head of  the  dying  man. 

"Was  that  Meg?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  old  man." 

"Has  she  gone  to  bed?" 

"Yes." 

"Funny  thing  she  didn't  say  good-night  to  her  daddy. 
First  time  I  ever  knew  her  miss." 

His  eyes  were  pained  and  puzzled.  The  swift  insight 
of  love  inspired  the  mother's  utterance. 

"She  sent  you  her  good-night  by  me,  dad,"  she  said, 
bending  over  him. 

"Ah!  that's  better,"  he  answered,  appeased. 

"I  packed  her  off  to  bed,"  continued  Loo.  "She's  a 
bit  tired  like.  It's  the  heat.  She'll  see  you  again  to- 
morrow before  school." 

He  nodded,  satisfied. 

"Ah,  yes!"  he  said.     "To-morrow,"  and  smiled. 

Thereafter  he  was  strangely  restless. 

She  held  the  candle  anxiously  to  his  eyes;  and  for  the 
first  time  during  his  illness  she  noticed  a  look  of  distress 
upon  his  face. 

"J  don't  somehow  feel  as  if  I'd  ever  get  well,"  he  said 
querulously.     "I  feel  that  poorly." 

She  mothered  him. 

"Do  you,  old  man?" 

He  moved  his  head. 


366  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

"Where's  the  doctor? " 

"He's  gone  home,  Ted.     Do  you  want  him?" 

"I  could  do  with  him,"  wearily. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the  silent 
city. 

It  was  Coronation  night.  Rockets  and  fireworks  were 
giving  a  vulgar  brilliance  to  the  darkness. 

"He  looked  very  tired,  Ted,"  she  said  gently.  "And 
he'll  be  in  first  thing  to-morrow,  sure." 

He  nodded. 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said.  "He's  got  plenty  of  trouble  of 
his  own." 

She  gathered  herself  on  the  bed  at  his  side. 

Then  he  began  to  doze. 

Since  his  breakdown  his  one  trouble  had  been  that  he 
could  not  sleep.  As  soon  as  he  got  off,  the  faces  of  his 
mates  rose  before  him  and  roused  him. 

To-night  she  heard  him  greet  them  man  after  man  by 
name. 

"'Ellow,  Bert!  That  you,  Charlie?"  and  shook  hands 
with  them  in  pantomime. 

Then  he  woke. 

"It's  too  bad,"  he  cried  irritably.  "Directly  I'm  off, 
they  rise  up  afore  me." 

"Try  again,  old  man,"  she  said.  "I'll  try  if  I  can  keep 
them  off."  He  shut  his  eyes.  She  waved  her  hand  before 
them. 


TEDDY  TRIUMPHANT  367 

Again  he  dozed  and,  crying  in  his  sleep  "Stop!"  reached 
out  his  hand,  clutching  after  something,  and  woke  once 
more. 

Loo  rose  and  went  to  the  window  with  weeping  eyes. 

Outside,  the  myriad-lighted  city  was  droning  slowly  off 
to  sleep.  Millions  of  men  and  women  were  turning  home- 
ward as  the  soul  of  the  little  cockney  strained  at  its  hawser, 
seeking  more  sea-room. 

He  saw  her  at  the  window. 

"Plenty  of  'em  out  there,"  he  said. 

She  turned  to  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  smiling. 

"They've  all  gone  to  sleep  now,"  she  said. 

"Except  only  the  chaps  on  the  Embankment,"  he 
answered.  "Daresay  Coronytion  didn't  do  them  much 
good." 

She  stood  over  him. 

"Are  you  easier  now,  Ted?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  at  her  and  smiled. 

The  trouble  and  distress  had  passed. 

She  made  him  and  herself  a  cup  of  tea  in  an  etna  lent 
by  Miss  English. 

"Come  and  lay  alongside  o'  me,"  he  said. 

She  spread  herself  beside  him,  and  made  of  her  arm  a 
pillow  as  he  loved. 

His  eyes  were  close  to  her  own,  his  hollow  face  near 
hers. 

"That's  cozy,"  he  said.     "That's  more  like." 


368  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

He  lay  some  while  with  shut  eyes.    Then  he  opened  them. 

"Am  I  your  little  boy?"  he  asked. 

"That  you  are,"  she  answered  tenderly. 

Again  there  was  a  pause. 

"What  was  I  like  when  I  was  a  little  chap?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  you  was  a  little  terror,"  she  answered,  humouring 
him. 

He  seemed  satisfied. 

Later  he  began  to  talk  of  the  past.  Whether  he  was 
wandering  or  not,  she  was  not  sure.  His  talk  was  lucid, 
almost  luminous.     He  seemed  himself,  yet  not  himself. 

He  told  of  his  childhood  in  Fish  Street,  played  once 
more  with  little  boys  there,  and  spoke  of  and  to  his 
mother. 

Then  he  became  restless  again,  his  head  waving  too  and 
fro  upon  his  pillow,  his  forehead  puckered. 

A  cloud  darkened  his  face. 

"Oh,  I  feel  so  ill,"  he  said. 

Loo  bent  over  him. 

"Do  you,  dad?" 

He  whimpered  a  little.  Then  the  cloud  passed,  and 
his  face  cleared. 

He  smiled  at  her  and  beckoned. 

"I  felt  I  was  coming  back,"  he  whispered. 

She  did  not  understand. 

"Whereto,  old  man?" 

"To  the  old  world." 


TEDDY  TRIUMPHANT  369 

He  lay  and  nodded,  the  joy  upon  his  face,  the  recogni- 
tion in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  Loo!"  he  whispered  in  awed  delight,  and  she  could 
feel  him  trembling. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?" 

"I'm  in  such  a  beautiful  country." 

She  bent  over  him,  moved  to  her  deeps  by  his  mys- 
terious emotion. 

"Can  you  tell  me  about  your  beautiful  country?" 

He  put  his  finger  to  his  lips  and  smiled  mysteriously. 

"Hush,  Loo,  hush!"  he  whispered. 

His  eyes  shone  like  great  soft  stars;  his  whole  being 
seemed  aglow. 

For  long  he  lay  rapt  and  gazing. 

"Will  you  pull  up  the  blind,  Loo,  and  watch  the  sun 
rise  with  me?"  he  whispered  at  last. 

She  smiled  at  him  tenderly. 

"It's  dark,  old  man,"  she  said.  A  clock  struck  with- 
out. "There,  it's  going  one.  The  sun  won't  be  up  for  a 
long  time  yet." 

He  lay  still  a  great  while,  his  eyes  rapt  and  radiant. 

Then  his  hushed  voice  came  whispering  once  more  upon 
the  silence. 

"Will  you  pull  up  the  blind,  Loo,  and  watch  the  sun 
rise  with  me?" 

His  voice  was  so  earnest,  so  intent,  that  she  rose  from 
the  bed  and  obeyed. 


370  THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

Outside  the  lamps  shone  and  over  head  the  night  was 
deep  and  brilliant.  A  wind-blown  paper  strayed  down 
the  street  like  a  rustling  ghost.  In  the  silence  the  huge 
city  slept. 

"Is  that  better?"  she  asked  him. 

He  lifted  a  finger  to  his  lips. 

"Hush,  Loo,  hush!"  he  whispered,  smiling  still,  his 
eyes  upon  the  window. 

She  took  her  place  beside  him  on  the  bed.  Her  arm  was 
beneath  his  head,  her  hand  in  his. 

Consciously  or  unconsciously  she  raised  his  head.  He 
gazed  out  into  the  large,  cool,  liberty  of  night  beyond. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  darkened.  There  was  a  dry  rattle 
in  his  throat;  and  his  hand  ceased  to  clutch  hers. 

When  Doctor  English  came  early  next  morning  he 
found  them  lying  side  by  side. 

Loo  was  sleeping,  her  eyelids  dark,  her  arm  still  be- 
neath her  husband's  head,  her  hand  in  his. 

The  doctor  hardly  knew  which  face  was  the  more  beau- 
tiful. 

The  dead  cockney  lay  red-haired  and  hollow,  ineffably 
happy,  and  holy  as  the  dawn. 

And  there  was  no  mistaking  the  calm  invincible  upon 
his  face. 

The  world  had  conquered  Teddy  Hankey;  and  Teddy 
Hankey  had  conquered  the  world. 


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